ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 


BY    THE    SAME  AUTHOR 
My  Garden  Doctor 

Also  the  Children's  Books 

Mary's  Garden  and  How  It  Grew 
When  Mother  Lets  Us  Garden 


'    * 


Her  bright  hair  glowed  against  the  dark  hedge 


ROBERTA 

OF 
ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 


BY 

FRANCES  DUNCAN 

AUTHOR  OF 

"my  GARDEN  doctor" 


ILLUSTRATED    BY 

JANE  DONALD 


GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 
1916 


Copyright,  19  U,  1915 ',  1916,  by 

DOUBLEDAY,    PAGE   &   COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages, 

including  the  Scandinavian 


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ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 


912728 


Roberta  of  )Ras,eib^fry!:GlfHeiis 

CHAPTER  ONE 

ROSEBERRY  GARDENS  is  an  adora- 
ble place  of  a  May  morning.     The 
^   brown   old    earth    fairly    sings    with 
colour. 

The  flat  ploughed  land,  which  a  few  days  ago 
stretched  acre  after  acre  in  a  dull  monotony  of 
nursery  squares,  has  changed  as  suddenly  as  if 
the  old  earth  were  Cinderella  and  May  were 
the  Fairy  Godmother.  The  commonplace  has 
vanished.  In  its  stead  is  a  wonderful  garden 
laid  out  on  a  splendid  scale:  a  great  parterre, 
where  broad  grassy  paths  separate  wide  beds 
of  radiant  colour:  white,  through  all  the  shades 
of  rose  to  deepest  crimson,  and  from  white  again 
through  all  the  yellows  to  flame  colour  and  deep- 
est orange.  The  only  green  is  that  of  the  wide 
paths,  the  young  foliage  of  oaks  in  the  distance, 
and  the  smooth,  close-clipped  hemlock  hedge 


4      ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

that  divides  the  azalea  plantation  from  the 
drive. 

The  .peculiar  charm  of  it  all  is  that  these 
parterres  of  brilliant  marvellous  colour  are  not 
dominated  by  a  mansion,  a  huge,  impressive  pile 
which  might  seem  to  say,  with  a  patronizing 
wave  of  the  hand  toward  the  garden's  richness — 
"  Oh,  yes,  very  handsome.  These  are  my  clothes ; 
this  is  my  setting — a  fairly  suitable  accompani- 
ment to  my  magnificence!" 

At  Roseberry  Gardens  the  plants  are  in  pos- 
session :  It  is  the  flaming  azaleas,  the  magnolias, 
and  all  the  lovely  host  that  are  the  mas- 
ters. As  for  buildings,  there  is  an  unpreten- 
tious little  affair,  low  and  almost  dingy,  scarcely 
to  be  noticed  if  it  were  not  for  the  brilliant 
magnolia  at  its  door.  Behind  it  stretches  a 
long,  low  packing  shed,  and  in  its  side  white- 
washed greenhouses  bury  their  heads.  "Merely 
for  our  caretakers  and  nurses,"  say  the  gardens. 

Instead  of  the  lady  of  the  manor  walking 
along  the  broad  paths  surveying  her  possessions, 
it  would  be  elderly  workmen  in  blue  blouse  and 
overalls  that  one  would  meet  of  a  May  morning, 
probably  each  with  a  bit  of  a  limp,  for  rheuma- 


CHAPTER  ONE  5 

tism  is  apt  to  touch  an  old  gardener.  Or  one 
might  see  Rudolph  Trommel,  short  and  broad, 
with  a  beard  like  a  gnome,  and  a  basket  on  his 
arm,  going  about  among  the  plants  like  an 
elderly  Troll,  clipping  here  and  there,  peering 
carefully  at  each  over  his  gold-rimmed  spec- 
tacles, looking  for  treasure  in  veritable  Troll- 
fashion,  for  a  wonderful  new  colour  or  for  some 
variation  of  keen  interest,  now  and  then  touch- 
ing or  lifting  a  lovely  head  with  adoring  fingers 
and  wonderful  gentleness. 

pNowhere,  I  believe,  are  plants  so  greatly  loved 
as  in  a  commercial  nursery.  Here  they  have 
nothing  of  the  flippant,  casual  treatment  that 
falls  to  their  lot  elsewhere.  J  The  very  fact  that 
they  are  to  stay  but  for  a  few  years  serves  to 
endear  them  the  more.  Like  young  folk  in  a 
family,  as  soon  as  they  are  well  grown  they  must 
leave  home  to  make  their  own  way  in  the  world 
and  take  their  chance  of  treatment.  The  gar- 
deners, like  parents,  stay  at  home  and  watch 
from  a  distance. 

"How  could  you,  Michael?"  said  old  Rudolph 
reproachfully  to  the  white-haired  Irishman  who, 
the  morning  on  which  our  story  begins,  was 


6      ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

marshalling  two  workmen  along  the  grass  path. 
(The  labourers  were  pushing  a  small  hand-cart 
loaded  with  young  magnolias.) 

"How  c'ud  I  what,  Mr.  Trommel?"  asked 
the  man  addressed.  He  was  cheerful  and 
ruddy  of  countenance,  with  a  moustache  like 
Prince  Bismarck's.  The  red  kerchief  knotted 
around  his  neck  served  to  strengthen  the  like- 
ness to  the  Iron  Chancellor. 

"How  could  you  sell  that  Gloria  Mundi?" 

"Indeed,  and  what  was  it  here  for?  'Tis 
gone  to  Mr.  Georg-rge  Gold's  place,  and  'tis  a 
foine  position  it  will  have  there.  If  it  had  been 
the  Glory  av  Hiven  I'd  have  sold  it! " 

"It  was  the  finest  Gloria  Mundi  we  had,"  said 
old  Rudolph  sadly,  as  he  turned  again  to  his 
work. 

To  a  horticulturist  like  Trommel,  plants  are 
not  for  personal  aggrandizement,  not  to  make  a 
place  look  handsome,  nor  even  to  show  his  skill 
as  a  gardener.  They  are  as  dear  children  to 
be  petted,  loved,  cared  for,  each  with  its  own 
peculiar  gifts;  each  new  one  a  thing  of  wonderful 
possibilities.  There  is  the  same  intense  happi- 
ness in  its  success,  the  same  eager  interest  in  its 


CHAPTER  ONE  7 

future,  the  same  poignant  disappointment  in  its 
failure  that  a  parent  has  for  his  child. 

Because  of  this  attitude,  the  gardens  of  horti- 
culturists and  plant  lovers  are  not  often  notable 
for  their  "effects,"  and  it  is  easy  enough  for  a 
landscape  gardener  to  pick  flaws  in  them.  No 
more  care  may  have  been  taken  to  place  a  plant 
in  an  effective  position  than  a  mother  takes  to 
put  a  child  where  he  will  look  decorative:  the 
vital  point  is  the  plant's  comfort,  well-being, 
happiness.  Old  Rudolph,  for  instance,  might 
remark  with  pleasure  that  a  Judas  tree  showed 
wonderfully  at  a  distance  with  the  delicate 
white  of  Halesia  for  company.  He  may  even 
have  advised  placing  it  there;  but  he  cares 
exactly  as  much  for  the  Judas  tree  in  a  row  with 
a  dozen  of  its  fellows.  "Of  course,"  he  may 
say,  "I  know  the  tree  looks  well  in  that  spot, 
but  I  can  think  of  a  dozen  other  admirable 
positions — if  one  cares  to  try  them ! " 

On  this  particular  May  morning,  after  leaving 
old  Trommel,  the  white-haired  Irishman  led  his 
workmen  with  the  cart  at  a  brisk  pace  along  the 
path,  past  the  bright  azaleas,  through  the  hem- 
lock gateway,  and  along  the  narrow  drive  to  the 


8      ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

little  office  building.  The  door  opened  and  a 
young  girl  appeared  on  the  threshold. 

"  Oh,  Michael !    I  want  you  dreadfully ! " 

Michael  stopped. 

"Take  them  plants  to  the  shed,  b'ys,"  he 
said  briskly,  addressing  his  elderly  assistants. 
"Here's  the  tag  for  thim;  give  it  to  Conklin. 
Quick!  Run!"  He  spoke  with  such  infectious 
energy  that  the  old  workmen  disappeared  on  a 
brisk  trot.  Then  he  turned  to  the  speaker  with 
a  delightful  smile,  and  took  off  his  old  felt  hat 
with  a  bit  of  a  flourish. 

"  Good  morning  to  you,  Miss  Davenant.  'Tis 
yersilf  that  looks  like  a  piece  of  the  morn- 
ing!" 

As  she  stood  in  the  dingy  doorway,  the  girl 
was  good  to  look  upon.  The  sunlight  touched 
her  copper  hair  to  red-gold.  She  did  not  look 
more  than  eighteen,  and  the  roundness  of  her 
face,  the  troubled  look  about  her  mouth,  made 
her  seem  even  younger.  But  there  was  a  boyish 
clearness  and  directness  in  the  gaze  of  the  gray 
eyes  and  a  decision  in  the  chin  that  contradicted 
the  dimple.  She  wore  heavy,  English-looking 
boots  that  had  been  afield  already  that  morning, 


CHAPTER  ONE  9 

a  rough,  brown  tweed  skirt,  rather  short,  and  a 
jacket  with  deep  pockets. 

She  put  her  hand  into  one  of  these  and  pulled 
out  some  slips  of  papers. 

"Whatever  is  the  trouble,  Miss  Davenant?" 

"Tompkins,"  answered  the  girl  briefly. 

"Him  again !" 

"He  won't  take  the  cases  for  the  Brazil  ship- 
ment— says  he  can't.  He's  half  the  load  that 
Washy  has,  and  those  boxes  ought  to  go." 

"Is  that  all?"  exclaimed  Michael.  He  fol- 
lowed her  into  the  office  and  went  briskly 
through  to  the  packing  shed,  where  were  the 
large  wooden  cases  and  the  protesting  teamster. 
Outside,  through  the  doorway,  could  be  seen 
the  horses  and  the  waiting,  half -loaded  truck. 

"Ye  cu'dn't  manage  to  get  the  boxes  on, 
Tompkins?"  he  said  sympathetically.  "Tis 
a  shame.  The  b'ys  here  will  help  you.  Come, 
lads,  up  with  them ! " 

"No,  no!"  protested  Tompkins,  as  one  of  the 
offending  boxes  was  almost  in  place  on  the 
truck,  "I  didn't  need  help  to  get  them  on " 

"I  know,  that's  the  foine  man,"  broke  in 
Michael;  "'tis  the  ne'er-do-weels  that  are  afraid 


10    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

of  their  jobs!  But  the  b'ys  may  as  well  help 
you.     Come,  lads,  up  with  the  other!" 

"I  don't  want  them  on;  I  won't  have  them!" 
protested  the  teamster.  "  I  can't  go  to  all  those 
places.  I'll  never  get  home ! "  (He  was  a  small, 
dark  man  with  a  little  chin  beard,  midway  be- 
tween a  goatee  and  the  full-sized  beard  worn  by 
clergymen  in  the  '60's.) 

"  Give  me  your  list,  Tompkins,"  said  Michael 
O'Connor  soothingly.  "Pier  36,  Pier  15,  the 
Mary  Powell,"  he  read.  "It  w'ud  be  hard  for  a 
stupid  lad  or  for  a  greenhorn,  but  'tis  a  clever 
man  like  yersilf,  Tompkins,  that  can  do  it  and 
do  it  foine.  Thim  big  cases  ye'll  put  off  first, 
and  the  rest  goes  as  aisy  as  a  May  morning. 
Ye'll  do  it  foine,  ye'll  plan  it  so  there's  not  a 
hitch.  Ye  needn't  be  worried,  man.  Ye  don't 
re-elize,  Tompkins,  what  a  cliver  teamster  ye 
are.  But  I  know  how  ye  felt,"  he  concluded 
sympathetically,  "fearing  ye'd  have  to  disap- 
p'int  the  young  lady  on  a  pretty  morning  like 
this !  Up  wid  ye  now !  Here's  yer  receipts  an' 
the  ferry-money." 

"How  did  you  ever  do  it,  Michael?"  asked 
the  young  secretary  as  he  reentered  the  office. 


CHAPTER  ONE  11 

She  turned  from  watching  the  grumbling 
teamster  as  he  went  down  the  road  between  the 
great  magnolias. 

Michael  grinned  and  nodded  complacently  as 
he  settled  the  Bismarckian  neckerchief. 

"Molasses,"  he  said  briefly.  "A  bit  sticky  at 
times,  but  'tis  the  best  thing  I  know  to  make  the 
wheels  av  life  run  smooth." 


CHAPTER  TWO 

THE  little  secretary  lived  in  a  great  old- 
fashioned  house,  square  and  white- 
painted,  in  the  older  part  of  the  town. 
The  freshet  of  village  improvement  had 
struck  Meadowport,  sweeping  away  the  old 
boundaries,  carrying  off  the  trim  picket  fences, 
thrusting  between  the  old  mansions  new  little 
houses,  coquettish,  impertinent,  and  highly  col- 
oured, all  gables  and  turrets,  piazzas  and  ginger- 
bread trimmings,  spoiling  the  beautiful  spacing, 
troubling  the  quietness  of  the  wide,  elm-fringed 
street.  But  the  Davenant  place  remained 
unchanged.  Not  even  a  flower  bed  broke  the 
smooth  stretch  of  green  under  the  great  elm 
trees.  The  picket  fence  stood  its  ground,  divid- 
ing the  lawn  from  the  garden,  running  beside  the 
shady  sidewalk,  and  reaching  past  the  house  and 
the  garden  until  it  met  the  place  beyond. 

The  garden  had  not  changed  either.     Behind 
the  box  borders  were  stiff  little  bushes  of  flower- 

12 


CHAPTER  TWO  13 

ing  almond,  very  soft  and  pink  despite  their 
stiffness,  and  tall  corchorus  bushes  that  met 
over  the  central  path.  Beside  the  fence  was  a 
row  of  currant  bushes  with  broad  blades  of  iris 
coming  up  between;  in  a  shady  corner  under 
the  fragrant  lilac  bushes  there  was  lily  of  the 
valley. 

Because  of  its  long  and  intimate  fellowship 
with  human  folk,  an  old  garden  has  a  curiously 
charming  appeal.  Whatever  has  happened  in 
the  house  of  which  it  forms  a  part — birth  or 
death,  separation  or  meeting — there  is  the  same 
sweetness  and  fragrance  each  recurring  year 
for  the  household,  whether  saddened  or  gay 
and  content.  For  this  reason  lilacs,  lilies  of 
the  valley,  and  the  little  almond  bushes  are 
woven  into  the  life  and  feeling  with  a  sweetness 
and  a  poignancy  that  the  gardenless  folk  know 
nothing  about. 

The  Davenant  house  had  changed  as  little 
as  the  garden.  You  passed  through  the  gate  up 
a  walk  of  small  rounded  cobblestones  to  rap 
with  the  great  brass  knocker  on  the  door,  wide 
and  beautifully  panelled;  while  you  waited, 
looked  up  at  the  large  oriel  window  with  leaded 


14    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

panes.  Within,  the  house  was  dim  and  quiet, 
the  furniture  heavy  and  handsome.  You  spoke 
quietly  when  you  stepped  into  the  great  parlour 
— at  least,  the  little  secretary  did — for  the  chairs 
and  the  long  Chippendale  sofa  stood  as  they 
had  stood  before  she  was  born.  Even  the 
whatnot  in  the  corner  bore  the  same  ornaments 
on  the  same  shelves:  the  carved  ivory  elephant 
from  Japan,  the  boxes  of  sandalwood  from  India. 
Despite  her  eighteen  years  Roberta  Davenant 
had  the  idea  that  if  she  did  anything  amiss  in 
that  room  or  sat  in  the  wrong  chair,  the  chairs 
and  tables  would  know  it,  would  express  their 
opinion  of  her  irreverence  when  she  was  gone, 
and  would  whisper  it  to  her  aunts. 

The  only  modern  thing  in  the  place  was  Miss 
Roberta.  She  lived  with  three  maiden  aunts 
all  over  sixty,  dim  and  stately  and  decorous 
like  the  furniture  of  the  old  house.  In  fact,  the 
aunts  with  their  dark  curls,  that  should  be 
gray,  their  clear  pale  complexions,  reminded 
Roberta  of  the  heavy  black  walnut  marble^ 
topped  furniture  of  their  bedrooms.  The  girl 
herself  was  more  akin  to  the  vivid  colour  of  the 
garden. 


CHAPTER  TWO  15 

Roberta  Davenant  had  been,  from  the  first,  a 
surprise  to  Meadowport.  Her  mother  had 
been  even  more  of  a  surprise,  for  Robert  Dave- 
nant, hard-working  lawyer  and  staid  bachelor 
until  forty-three,  had  the  experience  which 
sometimes,  though  rarely,  befalls  a  New  Eng- 
lander.  A  temperament  starved  and  de- 
pressed broke  suddenly  free,  sweeping  his  life 
as  clear  of  tradition  as  a  freshet  sweeps  a  moun- 
tain brook  of  last  year's  leaves;  and  he  married, 
after  a  sudden  and  impetuous  wooing,  a  girl 
twenty  years  his  junior,  a  Southerner  with 
copper-coloured  hair,  vivid  colour,  and  as  gay 
as  a  bobolink  on  a  June  morning.  When  he 
brought  her  back  to  the  old  house  Meadowport 
looked  at  her  and  disapproved.  Meadowport 
feared  she  would  make  Robert  Davenant  un- 
happy; that  she  would  prove  "flighty,"  for 
with  that  hair  and  colouring  one  "never  can 
tell,"  and  Meadowport  waited  ominously. 

But  Robert  Davenant  grew  ten  years  younger 
and  radiantly  happy.  She  brought  flowers  into 
the  house,  set  bowls  of  great  crimson  roses  in 
the  dim  corners,  and  later  woke  them  to  life 
with  the  warm-hearted,  fiery  marigolds.     She 


16    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

brought  her  violin  and  coaxed  Miss  Adelaide 
to  play  a  stiff  accompaniment,  coaxed  her  to 
play  the  old-fashioned  dances  while  she  taught 
Robert  Davenant  to  dance.  She  brought  her 
saddle  horse  up  from  the  South  and  made  Robert 
ride  with  her  early  in  the  morning.  And  the 
good  folk  of  Meadowport  seeing  them  pass, 
laughing  like  children,  said  again  that  they 
hoped  she  would  settle  down  before  she  ruined 
Robert  Davenant.  Even  Miss  Adelaide  pro- 
tested: "Dear  child,  the  early  morning  is  the 
time  for  duties,  not  for  pleasures." 

"But,  Adelaide,''  said  young  Mrs.  Davenant, 
fixing  her  clear  brown  eyes  on  her  sister-in-law, 
"why  did  God  make  the  early  morning  so  ex- 
quisite if  it  were  not  that  he  wished  to  pull  us 
out  of  our  houses?  The  rest  of  the  day  isn't 
so  pretty.  You've  no  idea  how  wonderful  the 
light  on  the  mountains  was  this  morning.  If 
you  would  only  come  with  us  once!" 

But  Miss  Adelaide  shook  her  head  with  a 
reluctant  smile,  and  hoped,  like  Meadowport, 
that  Margery  would  "settle  down."  Major 
Pomerane,  the  next  neighbour,  hoped  she 
wouldn't.   When  she  sent  over  a  plate  of  hot  Sally 


CHAPTER  TWO  17 

Lunns  he  responded  with  a  jar  of  mincemeat  of 
his  own  making,  wickedly  stiff  with  brandy  but 
very  delicious.  But  the  most  of  Meadowport 
stood  aloof  and  waited. 

Serenely  unconscious  of  the  general  disap- 
proval, young  Mrs.  Davenant  asked  the  frown- 
ing Meadowport  folk  to  dine  and  sup.  She 
invited  with  Southern  readiness,  ease,  and  fre- 
quency, and  that  Meadowport  which  was  used 
only  to  invite  on  rare  occasions,  after  careful 
consideration  and  much  preparation,  was  as- 
tonished, but  came.  An  invitation  was  a  serious 
thing  not  to  be  given  lightly,  but  soberly,  ad- 
visedly, and  in  the  fear  of  God.  Young  Mrs. 
Davenant,  however,  invited  to  breakfast  merely 
because  the  roses  were  in  bloom;  and  would 
have  supper  served  on  a  garden  table  under  the 
great  elm  trees  because  the  breeze  was  there. 

"But,  my  dear,"  remonstrated  Miss  Ade- 
laide, "it  has  never  been  done!" 

"How  dreadfully  unappreciative  they  must 
think  us! "  said  young  Mrs.  Davenant. 

"Unappreciative,  my  dear?" 

"The  elms,"  explained  young  Mrs.  Davenant. 
"They  have  been  casting  those  exquisite  shad- 


18    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

ows  for  a  hundred  years,  and  to  think  that 
no  one  cared  enough  to  bring  a  supper  out  to 
have  it  in  company  with  them !  Don't  you  think 
it  time,  dear  Adelaide?  "  Then  she  would  put  a 
soft  young  arm  around  the  older  woman's  neck, 
her  cheek  against  hers  like  a  child.  "Please! 
You  won't  dislike  it.      Truly  you  won't!" 

And  Miss  Adelaide,  who  petted  her  almost 
as  much  as  did  Robert  Davenant,  would  smile 
reluctantly.  "Whatever  pleases  you,  dear 
child,"  she  said. 

And  so  neighbours  and  friends  would  break- 
fast with  the  roses  and  have  supper  under  the 
great  elms;  they  came  with  alacrity  and  passed 
the  time  happily  enough,  but  with  a  certain 
guilty  enjoyment.  It  should  not  have  been  so 
pleasant  to  do  what  "was  not  done."  And 
after  they  went  home  they  said  that  "Mrs. 
Robert  Davenant  was  'different,'"  and  that 
you  "never  could  tell,"  and  that  they  hoped  for 
Robert's  sake  and  his  sisters,  that  she  would 
"settle  down,"  that  it  wasn't  quite  right. 

Poor  child!  She  did  settle  down.  For  after 
two  luminous  years  which  made  the  first  part 
of  his  life  seem  blank  and  lifeless  and  the  last 


CHAPTER  TWO  19 

ashes,  she  was  laid  in  the  little  churchyard  be- 
side the  decorous  Davenants,  and  Robert  was 
left  suddenly  aged  and  broken,  more  silent  than 
ever,  with  a  coppery  haired  baby  in  his  arms. 

But  he  brought  the  flowers  into  the  house  as 
she  had  taught  him,  the  red  roses  and  the  mari- 
golds and  the  tall  larkspurs,  and  he  took  his 
baby  into  the  garden  where  she  played  with  the 
poppies  and  hollyhock  blossoms  and  laughed 
and  cooed  at  their  warmth  and  colour.  Then 
he,  too,  "settled  down"  to  the  churchyard  and 
the  little  Roberta  was  left  to  her  three  aunts, 
as  out  of  place  in  the  dim,  stately  old  house  as  a 
humming  bird  in  a  family  of  owls. 

At  eighteen  Roberta  was  still  considered  by 
Meadowport  as  an  experiment. 

The  Davenant  ladies  did  their  best.  Miss 
Adelaide  taught  her  the  piano,  for  Miss  Augusta 
she  dutifully  embroidered,  but  the  embroidery 
would  get  taken  out  to  the  garden  and  lost  and 
forgotten.  Also  she  went  dutifully  to  school. 
But  always  in  the  morning,  if  she  were  not  miles 
away  up  the  hill  to  hear  the  thrushes,  you  could 
have  found  her  in  the  garden. 

She  made  friends  with  Major  Pomerane,  that 


20     ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

elderly  bachelor  who  was  eyed  askance  in 
Meadowport,  for  he  never  went  to  church  and 
he  had  fast  horses  and  won  prizes  with  them  at 
the  County  Fair.  From  the  time  Roberta  was 
ten  he  would  let  her  ride  anything  he  had,  and 
if  she  was  not  afield  on  her  own  account  she 
might  be  found  over  at  the  Major's  watching 
his  darkey  groom  the  horses,  and  taking  a  hand 
at  it  herself,  if  it  were  the  chestnut  colt.  If 
not  there,  she  would  be  sure  to  be  in  the  garden, 
poking  with  trowel  and  slim  brown  fingers 
among  the  plants. 

She  made  friends  with  Rudolph  Trommel, 
of  the  famous  Roseberry  Gardens,  who  used  to 
stop  and  chat  over  the  garden  fence  on  his  way 
to  work,  and  look  critically  at  the  plants. 

"Uncle  Rudolph,"  she  said  to  him  one  morn- 
ing, just  after  her  nineteenth  birthday,  "why 
couldn't  I  be  a  gardener?" 

"I  consider  you  a  fery  good  gardener,"  re- 
plied the  old  man  ponderously.  "Those  lark- 
spurs are  the  best  in  town." 

"I  don't  mean  just  this,"  she  said,  looking 
quickly  around  the  old  garden,  "I  mean  to 
know  really  about  all  the  plants  and  the  won- 


CHAPTER  TWO  21 

derful  new  ones,  and  how  they  are  grown.  Do 
you  know  the  great  magnolia  at  the  old  King 
Place,  where  was  once  a  botanic  garden?" 

Old  Rudolph  nodded. 

"There  was  a  staging  round  it  once  high  up 
and  lots  of  little  magnolia  plants  in  pots,  and 
they  bent  down  young  branches  of  the  old  tree 
and  grafted  them,  one  to  each  little  plant.  That 
was  an  old  way." 

"It  iss  in-arching,"  said  old  Rudolph,  "it 
used  to  be  the  only  way  to  graft  magnolias." 

"That  is  it,"  spoke  Roberta  eagerly.  "I 
didn't — know;  and  I  want  to  know  how  it's  done 
now.  I  want  to  do  it  with  these!"  she  con- 
cluded, holding  up  earth  with  stained  brown 
hands  and  spreading  out  slim  capable  fingers. 
"Is  there  any  reason  why  I  couldn't?" 

"Only  that  you  are  not  a  man,"  said  Rudolph 
Trommel. 

Roberta  sniffed.  "What  has  that  to  do  with 
it?  "  she  said  hotly. 

"  Chust  this,  f  So  far  as  I  haf  obserfed, 
among  plants,  there  iss,  of  course,  a  slight  struc- 
tural differentiation  in  the  sexes.  I  haf  yet  to 
obserfe  a  marked  difference  in  energy  or  in 


22    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

strength  or  in  usefulness;  und,  in  any  differ- 
ence in  energy  the  balance  would  be  in  fafour 
of  the  femalej  In  human  kind  there  iss  this 
difficulty.  Suppose  a  horticulturist  iss  making 
experiments.  Und  then  suppose  there  iss  a 
baby  with  the  colic.  If  the  experimenter  iss  a 
woman  und  if  it  iss  her  baby — alas  for  the  ex- 
periment! If  the  experimenter  iss  a  man  und 
if  it  iss  his  baby,  he  iss  sorry  it  has  the  colic: 
that  iss  his  wife's  affair.  He  goes  on  with  the 
experiment.  If  the  woman  iss  not  married 
und  has  no  baby  to  haf  the  colic — then  it  iss 
relatif,  aunt,  friend,  brother  that  calls  for  her 
when  in  need  of  aid :  it  iss,  as  it  were,  the  call  of 
the  colic — spiritual,  mental,  or  physical,  und  she 
responds  und  she  drops  her  work.  The  man  does 
not.  Efen  if  it  iss  death  the  man  iss  sorry,  he 
sends  his  sympathy  (by  his  wife),  he  does  not 
drop  his  experiment.  No  one  expects  him  to. 
[  "It  iss  not  a  difference  of  intelligence,  of 
energy,  of  ability,  but  of  concentration,  of 
selection.  It  may  be  confention,  it  may  be 
instinct — the  woman  feels  the  social,  human 
claim  binding  in  a  way  the  man  does  not. 
That  iss  the  difficulty.     It  may  be  ofercome  by 


CHAPTER  TWO  23 

concentration  and  by  uncultifating  the  natural 
und  expected-by-society  female  altruism." 

"Um-m,"  said  Roberta  contemplatively. 
Then  she  changed  the  subject.  "How  did 
you  learn  about  plants,  Uncle  Rudolph?" 

"Very  eassy.  I  went  where  plants  were  and 
when  I  had  those,  then  I  went  where  there 
were  plants  I  did  not  know.  When  I  was  a 
lad  at  Zurich,  I  learnt  there  what  there  wass  to 
know  about  plants  at  Zurich;  when  I  had  what 
could  be  learnt  there,  I  put  my  bundle  on  my 
shoulder,  und  I  went  to  France,  und  I  worked 
one  year,  two  years,  und  I  learned  roses.  Und 
then  I  went  to  the  rhododendron  growers  und 
I  worked  there.  I  learned  what  they  had  to 
teach.  Und  then  I  went  to  England — I  worked 
there  in  the  nurseries  one  year,  two  years.  I 
went  to  one  nursery;  I  found  they  knew  nothing; 
I  left.  I  went  to  another.  I  learnt  what  wass 
to  be  learnt  there.  Und  then  I  went  to  Boskoop, 
for  then  I  knew  it  wass  for  me  azaleas  and 
rhododendrons,  und  I  worked  there.  Und  at 
night  always  I  read,  und  when  I  found  the  man 
lied  I  burnt  him." 

"What!" 


24    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

"I  burnt  his  book  in  my  fire.  If  he  did  not 
gif  the  information  that  wass  nothing;  one  does 
not  gif  what  one  has  not.  But  if  he  stated  as  a 
fact  something  he  had  not  proved,  he  wass  not 
to  be  trusted.  There  wass  one  man,  he  has 
been  my  authority  for  ten  years.  But  he  said 
something.  My  experiment  made  me  think  it 
wass  not  so.  I  tried  again  und  yet  again.  The 
same  result.  He  had  lied,  he  had  said  a  thing 
wass  true  that  he  did  not  know  to  be  true.  I 
burnt  him.  He  should  gif  no  false  information 
to  any  one  else  after  I  wass  dead."  The  old 
man  ended  calmly. 

The  girl's  eyes  laughed,  but  her  mouth  was 
grave. 

"Have  you  any  books  left,  Uncle  Rudolph?" 

"A  few.  With  plants  one  gets  the  knowledge 
here" — he  tapped  his  cap  with  his  stick — "und 
here" — he  held  out  a  broad,  short-fingered, 
capable  hand. 

"That's  where  I  want  it.  Would  they  give 
me  a  job  at  the  gardens,  Uncle  Rudolph,  like 
you  had  at  Boskoop?" 

"There  is  no  woman  there  but  one,  and  she 
is  in  the  office  and  writes  and  that  sort  of  thing." 


CHAPTER  TWO  25 

"Accounts?"  asked  Roberta  anxiously. 

"No,  no,  she  has  not  intelligence.  Henry 
Sterling  does  the  accounts.  I  think  she  leaves 
soon  also.  |  She  iss  to  be  married  presently. 
That  takes  no  intelligence .^J 

"If  I  were  there — if  Mr.  Worthington  let  me 
— would  you  show  me  about  plants  when  there 
was  time?"  asked  the  girl  eagerly. 

"I  would  gif  what  I  could  to  any  one  who  had 
sincere  interest,"  said  the  old  man,  "but  I  haf 
no  time  for  the  trifler.  Good-day.  It  is  late 
already." 

"Um-m!"  said  Roberta  thoughtfully  as  she 
watched  old  Rudolph  go  down  the  street,  a 
thick,  broad  figure  stumping  heavily  with  his 
cane,  and  then  turned  again  to  the  phlox  she 
was  dividing. 

"I  wonder  what  she  does? — that  Ellen  Gris- 
com.  Dictation  I  suppose — that  sort  of  thing. 
She  is  there  probably  at  8:30.  If  one  got  there 
at  seven,"  she  laughed  to  herself,  "there'd  be 
apples  of  wisdom  to  pick  up  like  the  apples  there 
were  for  the  wise  early  little  pig  in  the  nursery 
story.     I'll  try,"  she  said  to  herself. 

Roberta  went  on  with  her  planting,  but  ab- 


26    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

sent-mindedly,  tucking  in  the  soil  about  the 
seedling  larkspur  very  much  as  an  old  lady  does 
her  knitting  with  quick  skilful  fingers  but  the 
mind  far  off. 

Presently  she  rose,  brushed  the  dirt  from  her 
fingers,  looked  at  them  ruefully  a  moment,  then 
dipped  them  in  her  watering  pot  and  rubbed 
them  with  her  handkerchief. 

It  was  still  early.  Aunt  Adelaide  would  not 
be  at  breakfast  for  half  an  hour  yet.  Roberta 
looked  about  her  garden  a  moment,  picked  the 
bluest  of  the  stately  larkspurs,  and  then  went 
down  the  path  between  the  hollyhocks,  through 
the  little  white-painted  gate,  into  the  Major's 
domain.  He  was  already  at  breakfast,  as 
Roberta  knew  he  would  be — the  little  table  set 
on  the  shady  porch. 

"Don't  talk  to  me,  Adelaide,"  he  would  say 
to  Miss  Davenant,  who  was  much  troubled 
about  his  customs.  "Don't  bother  me  about 
my  attitude  toward  life.  It  may  be  wrong — I 
don't  say  it's  becoming,  but  it's  comfortable. 
If  I  had  a  wife  she  would  study  my  comfort, 
wouldn't  she?  Well,  I  haven't.  So  I  study 
it  myself,  and  very  successfully.    And  if  you 


CHAPTER  TWO  27 

are  comfortable  yourself,  you  are  not  cross  with 
your  neighbours.  Benevolence,  like  charity, 
should  begin  at  home." 

"Hello!  Early  Bird,"  he  said,  "are  you  after 
worms?  Lots  of  them  down  in  my  cabbages. 
Nice  fat  round  ones.  Sit  down,  Roberta,  have 
some  coffee?" 

"Can't,  Uncle  Jim,"  she  said,  as  she  sat  down 
on  the  edge  of  the  porch.  "But  I  brought  you 
larkspur  as  a  first  course." 

"Nice  child,"  said  the  Major,  taking  the  lark- 
spur approvingly.  He  looked  at  her  a  moment. 
"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"Uncle  Jim,"  she  said,  "did  you  ever  feel 
as  if  you'd  '  bust '  if  you  didn't  do  something 
different?" 

"Lord,  yes,  child" — he  put  his  glasses  on  his 
nose  again — "but  I  never  did.  That's  youth 
— champagne  struggling  against  the  cork. 
You've  three  corks.  What  is  it  you  want  to 
do?  Ride  Nancy  at  the  County  Fair?  I  might 
let  you." 

Roberta  leaned  back  against  the  pillar, 
clasping  her  hands  loosely   about   her   knees. 


28    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

"Uncle  Jim,"  she  said,  "I  know  exactly  what  I 
want  to  do." 

"Then  it's  easy,"  said  he  cheerfully,  resum- 
ing his  eyeglasses.     "Do  it." 

"But  it  isn't  so  easy  to  do  it.  I  want  an 
establishment.  I  want  not  a  little  garden  but 
a  big  garden,  and  greenhouses — lots  of  green- 
houses. I  want  to  go  into  business,  and  that's 
the  business.  I  want  to  grow  carnations  and 
orchids  and  chrysanthemums  and  evergreens 
and  all  sorts  of  rare  things,  and  I  want  to  learn 
it,  just  as  a  man  does  when  he  begins  as  office 
boy/j 

"Um-m,"  said  James  Pomerane,  taking  off 
his  eyeglasses  again  and  looking  at  her  critically. 
Then  he  turned  to  the  setter.  "What  do  you 
think  of  it,  Zip  Coon?  " 

The  setter  unclosed  one  eye,  looked  at  his 
master,  wagged  his  tail,  then  stuck  his  nose 
again  between  his  paws. 

"Zip  Coon  approves,"  said  Major  Pomerane. 
"I  have  some  respect  for  his  opinion.  Doubt 
if  Adelaide  cottons  to  the  apprentice  idea,  Lord 
Robert.     If  you  were  a  boy " 

"That's  just  what  Uncle  Rudolph  said,  and 


CHAPTER  TWO  29 

— well  ...  I  admit  it  would  be  an  advan- 
tage, but  I'm  not.  The  best  I  can  do  is  to  try 
for  Ellen  Griscom's  job  at  Roseberry  Gardens. 
What  do  you  think,  Uncle  Jim?" 

"Um-m!"  repeated  the  Major.  "I  think 
they're  old  fossils  out  there,  all  of  them — 
petrified  sylva  and  flora  if  you  like,  but  petrified 
for  all  that — regular  carboniferous  strata  it  is. 
Shouldn't  think  it  would  be  gay  company." 

"The  azaleas  are  gay  enough!" 

"But  unresponsive,"  said  the  Major.  "And 
why  you  should  fancy  tying  yourself  to  an 
infernal  clicking  machine  like  that  I  don't 
see,  when  there's  dogs  and  horses  and  blue 
sky." 

"But  will  you,  Uncle  Jim?  And  will  you  say 
a  word  for  me  to  Mr.  Worthington?  I  know  I 
could  do  it." 

"Lord,  yes,"  he  said.     "I'll  see  Horace,  and 

I'll  try  and  calm  Adelaide  for  you,  too,  but 

Well,  I  think — I  think  I'd  break  it  gently  to 
Aunt  Adelaide  if  I  were  you,  and  I  think  for  the 
present  I'd  keep  that  ambition  locked  up  in 
safe  deposits  like  me  and  that  old  Trommel." 

"You're  an  angel,  Uncle  Jim.     I'll  come  over 


30    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

and  make  Nancy  look  as  if  she  was  made  of 
satin." 

"But,  my  dear,"  protested  Miss  Adelaide, 
"none  of  the  Davenant  ladies  have  earned  their 
living!" 

"More  shame  to  them!"  said  Roberta  cheer- 
fully. "If  I  were  a  boy  I'd  have  been  at  work 
two  years  ago  instead  of  living  off  you.  I  can't 
help  not  being  a  boy,  Aunt  Adelaide,  but  I 
can  help  loafing.  Besides,  haven't  you  wanted 
me  to  settle  down?  And  if  getting  rooted  in  a 
garden  isn't  settling  down,  what  is  it?  And 
then  it  will  make  me  very  happy,  and  I'll  bring 
you  home  such  pretty  things!" 

So  it  happened  that  September  found  Roberta 
Davenant  at  work  at  the  famous  old  Roseberry 
Gardens. 


CHAPTER  THREE 

ROBERTA  fitted  at  Roseberry  Gardens 
as  she  had  never  fitted  into  the  Dave- 
»  nant  house.  She  liked  it.  She  liked 
the  head  of  the  firm,  Mr.  Horace  Worthington, 
a  little  old  gentleman  with  charm  and  rare 
courtesy  of  manner,  a  scholar  and  botanist. 
He  was  slight  and  silvery  haired,  and  wore 
large  gold-bowed  spectacles.  In  fact,  it  seemed 
as  if  every  one  at  Roseberry  Gardens  had  silvery 
hair  or  gray.  The  only  young  life  really  evident 
was  Roberta  herself  and  the  freckled  office  boy, 
Barney.  There  was,  it  is  true,  a  sprinkling  of 
sons  and  nephews  among  them,  and  there  was 
Conklin,  the  packer,  thin,  nervous,  rapid,  and 
black  haired,  but  the  impression  of  the  work- 
men's heads  one  saw  bending  here  and  there 
among  the  nursery  rows  was  of  gray  and  silver, 
like  the  big  Alcock's  spruce  at  the  drive  end. 

The  young  secretary  liked  it  all — the  excite- 
ment of  packing  and  shipping,  the  scent  of 

31 


j) 


32    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

fresh  earth  from  the  heaps  of  little  plants  await- 
ing their  journey,  the  fragrance  of  young  ever- 
greens that  made  the  long  packing  shed  "smell 
like  Christmas,"  as  she  said. 
r  She  enjoyed  the  romance  of  it:  the  Christmas 
trees  that  were  started  south  in  late  September 
to  bring  a  northern  Yuletide  to  the  little  South 
Americans;  trees  that  went  west  like  valiant 
pioneers  to  the  treeless  regions  to  combat 
drought  and  winds  and  make  a  foothold  for 
others;  stout  young  junipers  that  were  sent  to 
the  seacoast  to  protect  wind-swept  struggling 
gardens  from  northeasters. 

She  loved  the  heaps  and  heaps  of  rosebushes, 
only  brown  stems  and  roots  in  the  autumn,  that 
would  wake  up  in  the  spring  in  a  new  home 
to  make  some  bit  of  wilderness  blossom.)  She 
used  to  wonder  how  they  would  like  their  new 
homes.  There  was  no  cause  for  worry  about 
the  delicate  stately  camellias  that  went  away 
most  carefully  packed  and  attended.  Those 
were  sure,  like  fine  ladies,  to  get  good  treatment 
simply  because  they  demanded  it! 

And  she  liked  the  people  who  came  and  went: 
those  that  bought  few  plants  but  chose  them 


CHAPTER  THREE  33 

judiciously,  each  taking  home  as  a  prize  to  his 
garden  some  lovely  new  thing;  little  old  ladies 
whose  one  outing  in  the  year  was  a  visit  to  the 
famous  gardens  and  the  purchase  of  a  long- 
desired  daphne  or  andromeda,  to  take  away 
with  pure  delight.  Most  of  the  owners  of  large 
places,  who  visited  the  gardens,  were  real  plant 
lovers  and  enjoyed  to  the  utmost  any  beauty 
of  a  new  sort.  If  they  were  not  plant  lovers 
they  did  not  come,  but  sent  their  gardeners, 
Scotchmen,  Germans,  or  Englishmen  who  knew 
and  loved  plants.  Roberta  hated  dealers — the 
hard  commercial  type  to  whom  a  plant  was 
merely  something  out  of  which  to  make  money 
in  the  handling.  One  of  these  prosperous- 
looking,  florid  gentlemen  would  look  casually  at 
a  row  of  exquisite  young  mountain  laurel  as 
poetic  a  flower  as  the  Lord  ever  made,  and  say 
patronizingly: 

"Pretty  good  material.  I'm  using  a  lot  of 
it."  At  such  times  Roberta  would  go  back  to 
the  office  in  disgust,  j 

"Hope  you  didn't  show  him  any  of  the  lovely 
things,  Michael,"  she  said,  when  O'Connor  came 
into  the  office  after  taking  about  the  Gardens 


34    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

one  of  the  non-elect.  |  "I  wouldn't  mind  his 
having  privet.  I  think  the  Lord  must  have 
made  catalpas  and  privet  for  just  such  people — 
those  and  Thunberg's  barberry.  None  of  those 
has  any  feeling!" 

Michael  laughed. 

"You're  as  bad  as  Mr.  Trommel,  Miss  Dave- 
nant!  Whatever  would  Roseberry  Gardens  do 
if  it  wasn't  for  Michael  to  forget  about  feelin's 
and  sell  plants.  You've  not  the  right  under- 
standing." 

"  'Tis  an  ar-rt  to  sell  plants,  and  a  foine  art. 
There's  no  pleasure  in  life  like  it!  To  take  a 
man,  who  has  no  idea  in  his  head  but  to  buy  a 
bit  of  something  green  to  stick  somewhere,  and 
that  as  cheap  as  he  can,  and  to  wake  him  up  to 
see  how  foine  is  this  and  this  and  this !  To  make 
him  feel  there'll  be  no  peace  in  his  soul  until  he 
has  Magnolia  stellata  or  a  group  of  foine 
azaleas!  'Tis  an  achievement!  And  once  he 
larns  to  buy,  he'll  buy  plants  to  the  day  of  his 
death,  and  thin  he'll  leave  ordthers  f'r  plants 
in  the  cemint'ry  lot  and  f'r  its  maintainance. 

"  Still,  I  had  trouble  to-day.  Mrs.  Hewson 
was   here — the   old   lady — wit'   her  daughter. 


CHAPTER  THREE  35 

Now,  the  old  lady  will  buy  foine  if  she's  let 
alone.  But  Miss  Hewson — it's  homely  she  is, 
and  not  young  neither!  And  'tis  nothing  she 
thinks  of  but  'I'm  Miss  Hewson,  I  am!  And  I 
own  the  whole  state  of  Delaware,  I  do.'  And 
it  was:  'Now,  mother,  you  don't  want  that! 
Now,  mother,  that's  quite  like  a  snowball  we 
have.  Now,  mother,  it's  time  we  were  going!' 
At  last  I  c'd'n't  stand  it  no  longer. 

'"Miss  Hewson,'  I  says,  'belike  ye're  not 
aware  that  'tis  not  of  hersilf  yer  mother  is 
thinkin',  but  of  childern  and  grandchildern 
and  of  makin'  the  place  beautiful  for  thim. 
'Tis  yersilf  and  yer  childern  afther  you  that'll 
see  the  full  beauty  of  that  rhodydendron.' 

"At  that  she  quieted  down  a  bit  an'  let  the 
old  lady  buy  two  or  three  plants.  But  'twas 
not  long  before  she  began  again  wit'  her  'Now, 
mother!'  She  spint  but  fifty  dollars,  did  the 
old  lady.  She'd  have  spint  two  hundred  and 
fifty  if  the  daughter  'd  let  her  alone. 

"'Oh,  Miss  Hewson,'  I  says  to  myself,  'in- 
deed you'd  do  better  if  you'd  as  much  sinse 
as  yer  mother.  And  you'd  give  a  lot  of  that 
same  state  of  Delaware  if  you  was  as  young 


36    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

and  good  lookin'  as  the  gur-rl  we  have  in  the 
office!' 

"  Tis  a  pity,"  said  Michael,  shaking  his  head, 
"for  a  gur-rl  to  grow  up  like  that.  But  her 
father's  a  State  Sinator,  and  what  can  you  ex- 
pect?" 

Promptly  at  9:15  every  morning  Mr.  Horace 
Worthington's  coach,  driven  by  a  frosty-haired 
negro,  Peregrine  Pink,  drove  up  to  the  office 
door. 

"Whoa,  dar!"  the  young  secretary  would 
hear  through  the  open  window  in  tremendous 
tones.  "Whoa,  dar!"  and  Peregrine  would 
rein  in  the  placid,  leisurely  gray  horse  as  fiercely 
as  if  he  were  a  battle-impassioned  stallion  and 
Peregrine  himself  a  cavalry  officer. 

Then  the  office  door  would  open,  Mr.  Worth- 
ington  would  come  in,  glance  at  the  clock,  and 
compare  it  with  his  watch. 

"Dear  me!  I  must  speak  to  Peregrine;  he  is 
invariably  late." 

But  by  that  time  Peregrine  would  have  driven 
off,  breathing  a  bit  hard  from  the  late  excite- 
ment.    Peregrine's  instructions  were  that  he 


CHAPTER  THREE  37 

should  be  at  the  Worthington  residence  at  a 
quarter  of  nine.  But  whether  the  old  darkey  was 
dilatory  or  whether  he  held  a  firm  opinion  that 
nine  o'clock  was  too  early  for  Mr.  Horace 
Worthington  to  be  at  his  office,  it  would  be 
hard  to  say.  Never,  during  the  past  five  years, 
had  he  appeared  at  the  Worthington  house 
before  exactly  nine;  and  always  Mr.  Worth- 
ington intended  to  "reprimand  Peregrine." 

Mr.  Worthington  was  not  at  all  successful 
at  reprimands;  either  he  postponed  giving  them 
or  they  missed  the  mark  and  went  harmlessly 
over  the  head  of  the  offender. 

"Patrick,"  Roberta  heard  him  say  to  an 
aged  workman  who  had  done  exactly  the  op- 
posite of  the  instruction  given,  "it  seems  to  me 
that  if  there  is  an  erroneous  method  of  work, 
you  invariably  choose  it." 

"  Yis,  sorr,"  responded  Patrick  with  contented 
pride,  "Oi  do  that!" 

Mr.  Worthington  was  a  bachelor  of  seventy, 
with  the  serenity  and  benignity  that  seems  to 
come  to  many  men  who  have  lived  their  lives 
among  plants,  for  gardens  have  a  way  of  bless- 
ing back  those  who  really  love  them. 


38    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

He  was  a  scholarly  old  gentleman.  He  liked 
to  quote  Horace  and  Ovid,  and  would  repeat 
line  after  line  of  Homer  because  he  liked  the 
music  and  sonorousness  of  the  old  poet.  He 
read  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  and  never  could  plan 
an  orchard  without  associating  it,  in  his  mind, 
with  the  adored  quincunx  of  Sir  Thomas,  a 
plan  that,  to  the  exquisite  old  prose-poet,  was 
the  quintessence  of  garden  symbolism.  As  a 
young  man  he  had  travelled  extensively,  not 
only  on  the  continent,  but  in  Russia,  in  Japan, 
which  then  was  an  almost  unknown  country. 
He  knew  Kew  Gardens  almost  as  well  as  he 
knew  Roseberry  Gardens;  and  in  landscape 
art  he  swore  by  Repton  and  Le  Notre. 

Yet  with  all  his  love  and  feeling  for  antiquity, 
for  the  beauty  and  charm  of  the  older  gardens, 
in  horticulture  and  horticultural  experiment  he 
was  not  so  much  intensely  modern  as  he  was 
a  futurist.  For  to  be  modern  is  to  be  mentally 
in  the  fashion,  and  merely  to  echo  the  thought 
and  feeling  about  one — an  easy  and  unimportant 
thing  to  do.  Horace  Worthington  was  a  fu- 
turist. 

In  his  mind,  the  experiment  of  the  Arabian 


CHAPTER  THREE  39 

gardeners  centuries  and  centuries  ago  with  the 
traditional  "blue  roses,"  the  supposed  origin 
of  the  yellow  roses,  linked  itself  with  the  present 
way  of  encouraging  the  blue  tint  in  the  Hortensis 
hydrangeas  by  iron  filings  in  the  soil.  He 
considered  the  Arabian  gardener  a  fellow  experi- 
menter, animated  all  those  years  back  with  the 
same  passionate  interest  in  a  plant's  possibili- 
ties. He,  too,  had  lived  in  the  future.  Be- 
cause a  thing  had  never  been  done,  was  not 
horticultural  usage,  was  to  him  no  reason  why 
it  should  not  be  done.  Because  a  plant  "could 
not  be  grown  in  this  country"  was  no  reason 
why  it  might  not  thrive  at  Roseberry  Gardens. 
(  So  while  other  horticulturists  were  content 
to  import  new  or  unusual  plants,  Horace  Worth- 
ington  was  never  content  until  he  could  grow 
them  and  grow  them  easily  in  the  Roseberry 
Gardens  with  no  more  than  the  customary 
amount  of  carej  Therefore,  instead  of  import- 
ing plants,  he  imported  Rudolph  Trommel, 
whose  interest  in  experiment  was  as  great  as  his 
own. 

Horace  Worthington  had    the    theory    that 
plants   could  learn  to  adapt  themselves  to  a 


40    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

very  different  climate;  if  by  coddling  and  watch- 
fulness a  plant  could  be  brought  through  several 
winters  safely,  the  second  or  third  generation 
from  that  plant  might  endure  the  climate  with- 
out aid. 

He  held  that  plants  could  learn  to  change 
their  diet,  and  constantly  tried  to  induce  the 
critical  ones  to  be  content  with  ordinarily  good 
garden  soil. 

He  had  other  visions  besides  those  concerned 
with  methods  of  growing.  He  wished  to  see  a 
winter  garden  in  the  heart  of  the  city.  It  should 
occupy  an  entire  block.  The  centre  would  be  a 
great  glassed-in  space,  there  would  be  no  extra 
heat  but  what  the  sun  through  the  glass  afforded. 
Here  would  be,  not  hothouse  plants,  but,  grown 
as  in  the  open,  those  not  quite  able  to  stand  a 
northern  winter — camellias,  Indian  azaleas,  ten- 
der rhododendrons,  the  Southern  jessamine,  and 
ilex;  on  the  outer  edges  of  the  square  would  be  art 
shops,  florist's  shops,  curio  shops,  and  kindred 
pretty  business  attracted  by  the  charm  of  the 
situation.  Here  might  the  aged  and  convalescent 
sit  to  sun  themselves  in  the  winter  sunshine  and 
watch  the  busy  life  go  by.     In  summer  the  glass 


CHAPTER  THREE  41 

would  be  removed  and  the  place  would  be  a 
Public  Garden  abloom  with  roses. 
f~~As  early  as  in  the  '40's  Horace  Worthington 
was  writing  of  city  playgrounds  for  children,  of 
roof -gardens  where  plants  might  really  be  grown, 
of  housetop  conservatories — things  which  to- 
day, some  seventy  years  later,  are  matters  of 
"recent  experimental! 

But  when  he  explained  these  projects  in  the 
papers  in  rather  flowery  letters  signed  "Agri- 
cola,"  he  was  accused  of  getting  his  ideas  from 
Nineveh  and  Babylon,  of  being  steeped  in 
his  beloved  ancients  and  "out  of  touch  with 
modern  life."  (  He  was  told  that  he  was  ignorant 
of  the  trend  of  present  education  when  he 
urged  gardens  for  children^1 

Worthington  was  rated  old  fashioned,  a  senti- 
mentalist, a  dreamer  about  gardens — the  usual 
contemporary  verdict  on  any  constructive 
thinker. 

Because  he  believed  in  our  climatic  similarity, 
Japan  and  Japanese  horticulture  interested  him 
greatly.  He  had  met  Siebold,  the  German  bot- 
anist; he  knew  well  Doctor  Hall;  and  it  was  to 
Roseberry  Gardens  that  Doctor  Hall  brought  the 


42    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

exquisite  Japanese  flowering  apple,  known  first 
as  Malus  Halleana,  now  as  Pyrus  Malus  Park- 
manni,  a  very  rose-bud  of  an  apple-tree,  and  Evo- 
nymus  Yeddoensis  and  many  another  variety. 

Mr.  Worthington  and  Rudolph  Trommel 
would  hold  long  and  animated  conversations, 
chiefly  about  rhododendrons,  and  how  they 
should  be  grown. 

"It  is  the  climate  that  makes  the  difference," 
Mr.  Worthington  would  say;  "the  same  in 
races  as  in  plants.  Give  Labrador  the  climate 
of  equatorial  Africa  and  you  will  have  tropical 
vegetation.  It  is  our  climate  that  strains  the 
English  rhodedendrons;  the  peat  soil  has  little 
to  do  with  it.  Our  extreme  and  sudden  changes 
tax  the  root  system,  and  that  is  why  the  native 
rhododendron  has  twice  the  spread  of  roots  as 
an  English  one.     It  needs  them." 

"That  may  be  so,"  assented  Rudolph  Trom- 
mel indifferently. 

"If  we  can  develop  a  good  root  system,  we 
have  it!  Peat  does  not  encourage  a  large  root 
system  and  demands  much  moisture;  we  must 
try  it  without  peat,  and  with  no  surface  water- 
ing.    If,  with  the  resistance  of  the  Catawbiense 


• 


CHAPTER  THREE  43 

we  set  the  fine  colour,  it  will  be  an  achieve- 
ment!" 

"It  iss  possible,"  said  old  Rudolph,  who 
rarely  was  worked  up  to  the  same  pitch  of 
enthusiasm  as  Horace  Worthington. 

"Possible!"  the  old  gentleman  would  say  in  a 
glowing  voice;  "it  can  be  done!  We  shall  have 
the  colour  of  the  hybrids  and  the  hardiness  and 
ease  of  the  culture  of  the  common  privet!" 

"But  we  need  a  hedge  plant,  Trommel! 
Something  that  will  be  in  America  what  the 
yew  is  in  England." 

For  Michael  and  Michael's  methods  Horace 
Worthington  had  an  affectionate  tolerance.  He 
had  tolerance  and  something  like  real  pity  for 
Henry  Stirling,  painstaking  and  hard  working, 
and  absent  just  now  on  business.  Poor  Henry! 
He  had  no  feeling  for  the  beauty  and  poetry  of 
the  business.  With  him  it  was  all  sizes  and 
prices  and  quotations.  It  could  no  more  be 
helped  than  blindness.  He  liked  Roberta. 
He  appreciated  her  colour  in  the  dingy  office 
very  much  as  he  did  the  colour  of  azaleas.  He 
liked  her  eager  interest  in  the  plants  and  he 
used  to  lend  her  books — Repton  and  Gilpin, 


44    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

"Evelyn's  Diary,"  and  a  fat,  comparatively 
modern  book,  "L'Art  de  Jardin,"  by  Andre 
(for  its  excellent  account  of  Le  Notre),  also 
Robinson's  "English  Flower  Garden,"  with  the 
caution  that  he  was  a  bit  gone  mad  over  the 
"naturalistic,"  so  she  must  not  believe  him  com- 
pletely. 

Roberta  used  to  take  these  home  to  the  old 
house,  and  Aunt  Adelaide  became  quite  wildly 
interested.  She  would  read  them  while  Roberta 
was  at  the  office.  She  enjoyed  particularly 
the  elegance  of  the  Le  Notre  gardens,  and  the 
emphasis  William  Robinson  laid  on  gardening 
being  so  lovely  and  suitable  a  concern  of  wo- 
1  _^>  man.  She  was  relieved  that  Roberta  was  in- 
terested in  something  so  safe  and  womanly. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

WHEN  the  grumbling  teamster  had  at 
last  gone  down  the  road,  Michael 
O'Connor  returned  to  the  office  and 
sat  down  beside  the  big  desk  where  the  young 
secretary  was  established. 

"Thank  Hiven!  that's  done!"  he  said  fer- 
vently. "  'Tis  like  a  nightmare  sittin'  on  the 
chist  of  the  Roseberry  Gardens  till  Tompkins 
is  off  in  the  mornin'." 

Roberta  laughed  as  she  pulled  a  bunch  of 
lists  from  a  drawer. 

"Tell  me  about  these,  Michael." 

They  were  orders  to  be  given  to  the  different 
foremen.  Michael  drew  out  a  case  and  put  on 
large  steel  spectacles. 

Roberta  held  up  one  for  scrutiny.  "Pete?" 
inquiringly. 

He  shook  his  head.  "He's  not  sinse  enough 
for  that.     Give  that  to  O'Malley." 

"Here!" 

45 


46    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

He  took  the  lists  in  his  hand.  "This,  and 
this,  and  this — that'll  keep  O'Malley  busy."  He 
sorted  the  orders  carefully  and  slowly,  according 
to  the  intelligence  required  and  convenience  in 
digging,  and  handed  them  back  to  Roberta. 

The  girl  clipped  the  lists  together  in  accord- 
ance with  Michael's  suggestions,  initialled  them, 
and  pushed  the  order-book  aside. 

"We  must  send  a  man  to-morrow  to  do 
planting  at  the  Babies'  Home,"  said  Roberta. 
"Who's  the  one  to  go?" 

Michael  puckered  his  lips  a  moment,  then 
his  face  lighted. 

"Brian,"  he  said;  "sind  Brian.  'Tis  a  foine 
lad  he  is  and  knows  the  plants  well,  but  he 
can't  keep  from  the  dhrink.  'Tis  a  pity  a 
man  would  wish  to  take  leave  of  his  sinses  for 
the  sake  of  puttin'  things  down  his  t'roat! 
Sind  him!  'Tis  only  milk  and  infants'  food 
he'll  get,  and  not  a  dhrink  wit'in  ten  miles! 
'Tis  just  the  place  for  him." 

Michael  picked  up  his  felt  hat,  started  to  go, 
then  suddenly  turned. 

"I  was  forgettin'!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  know 
ye  had  to  go  in  airly  yesterday  about  that  ship- 


CHAPTER  FOUR  47 

ment,  but  'twas  a  pity!  Mister  Herford— Mr. 
Maurice  J.  Herford — was  here. " 

"Was  he?  "  asked  Roberta  carelessly. 

"He  was  that!  An'  so  disapp'inted  at  not 
gettin'  a  sight  of  yez,  he  c'u'd  buy  nothin' — 
nothin'  at  all,  at  all!" 

Roberta's  eyes  laughed.    "Too  bad ! "  she  said. 

"Yes,  so  I  thought.  It  wint  to  my  har'rt 
to  see  my  little  man  so  disapp'inted-like,  so  I 
tuck  him  out  to  the  houses,  an'  I  showed  him 
the  Magnolia  parvi flora  you  are  forcin',  an'  gave 
him  wan  branch.  I  said  I  knew,"  he  smiled 
broadly,  "y°u  was  forcing  them  for  him,  knowin' 
his  int'rust  in  magnolias." 

"Michael!"  exclaimed  the  girl,  "how  could 
you!" 

"How  c'u'd  I  not?"  he  demanded,  "There 
was  the  foinest  little  man  that  comes  out  to 
Roseberry  Gardens.  How  c'u'd  I  let  him  go 
home  so  forlornsome  and  lookin'  like  there  was 
nothin'  in  loife  at  all,  at  all?  Don't  ye  give  a 
flower  to  a  b'y  or  gur-rl  in  the  street  that  looks 
hungry  for  it?  An'  if  so  little  a,  thing  w'u'd 
make  a  man  happy,  'tis  not  yersilf,  Miss  Dave- 
nant,  that  w'u'd  have  the  har-rt  to  refuse!" 


48     ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

Roberta  laughed  helplessly. 

"Don't  you  do  that  again,  Michael,  or  I'll " 

But  Michael  was  already  disappearing.  Left 
alone  in  the  dingy  office,  a  look  of  vexation 
clouded  the  girl's  face,  then  she  laughed.  One 
could  not  get  really  cross  with  Michael. 

She  looked  at  the  clock. 

"Eight,"  she  said  to  herself.  It  would  be  an 
hour  and  a  quarter  before  the  coachman  would 
bring  Mr.  Horace  Worthington  and  the  mail. 

She  took  her  hat  from  the  nail  and  went  out 
into  the  gay  May  morning. 

On  one  side  of  the  office  was  a  wide  ploughed 
field,  in  which  the  men  were  preparing  to  plant 
corn,  to  give  the  land  its  sabbatical  year. 
Perched  on  the  fence  was  a  solemn  row  of  black- 
birds, waiting  for  the  sowing  to  begin — all  eyes 
on  the  furrows. 

She  turned  the  other  way,  past  rows  and  rows 
of  dogwood  whose  petals  were  beginning  to 
open — red-flowering  ones  that  looked  as  if  a 
flock  of  scarlet  butterflies  had  just  alighted  on 
their  dark  branches.  Through  the  arched  gate- 
way in  the  hemlock  hedge  she  passed,  and  along 
the  broad  grass  path,  until  she  caught  sight  of 


'  Along  by  the  woods  to  the  end  of  the  dogwoods 
pleasant  walk" 


and  that's  a 


CHAPTER  FOUR  49 

Mr.  Trommel,  basket  on  arm,  bending  over  the 
gorgeous  azaleas. 

"Good  morning,  Uncle  Rudolph!" 

"Good  morning !"  he  responded.  "You  can 
help  me  a  bit,  I  think.  What  iss  the  colour?  " 
He  clipped  off  a  blossom  and  held  it  up  for  Ro- 
berta's inspection. 

She  looked  at  it  critically.  "The  petals  are 
rose  colour  and  the  buds  garnet — I  think  I 
should  say  just  that.  You  can't  make  a  mix- 
ture of  the  colours.  They  aren't  mixed;  they're 
distinct." 

Rudolph  nodded  "good"  and  wrote  with  a 
cramped  hand  on  the  label,  repeating  as  he 
wrote,  "Garnet  unfolting  to  pale  rose,"  then 
twisted  the  wire  around. 

"Undthis?" 

It  was  hard  to  tell;  the  petals  were  salmon 
infused  with  pale  gold. 

"  What  is  its  name?  "  she  asked. 

"Three  hundred  und  forty-four." 

"Sounds  like  a  prisoner,"  she  said,  "or  a  ward 
patient.  It  should  have  a  better  name  than 
that!" 

"You  can  name  it,"  he  said,  "it  iss  mine. 


50    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

It  iss  one  of  the  new  seedlings.  It  iss  hard  to 
find  names  for  all  the  children,  take  it ! " 

She  took  the  flower. 

"It  looks  like  the  sun  shining  through  in  the 
morning  more  than  anything  else,"  she  said. 
"Aurora,  I'd  call  it,  but  perhaps  I'll  find  a 
better  name. 

"I  must  go  now,  Uncle  Rudolph;  I've  a  list  for 
Peter.     I  have  to  go  to  'End  Entirely.' " 

She  went  quickly  down  a  broad  grass  path, 
through  another  gateway,  and  into  the  drive 
again.  It  was  not  a  wide  one;  on  each  side 
were  tall,  close-clipped  hemlock  hedges  that 
stretched  straight  to  the  bordering  line  of  woods, 
where  the  drive  ended  in  a  circle. 

This  was  what  Michael  called  "Entirely." 
"To  be  sure,"  he  said,  " 'Tis  the  'End  En- 
tirely.' " 

To  Roberta's  mind  there  should  have  been  a 
statue,  a  fountain,  or  a  pool  at  the  end  of  the 
driveway.  The  straight  hedges,  the  blooming 
trees  that  reached  above,  and  the  dim  woods 
that  ended  it  seemed  to  demand  such  a  terminus. 
Instead,  at  the  end  of  the  stately  drive  was  an 
unnoticed  opening  which  led  to  the  unpreten- 


CHAPTER  FOUR  51 

tious  establishment  of  Washington  Jones,  the 
well-tempered  negro  teamster. 

Roberta  walked  quickly  and  happily,  swing- 
ing the  azalea  between  her  fingers,  looking  up 
again  and  again  at  the  late  Magnolia-Lenne 
that  held  up  great  wine-coloured  chalices  to  the 
mprning  sun,  and  the  blossoming  pear  trees,  for 
on  the  other  side  of  the  hedge  pear  and  peach 
tree  stood,  row  after  row  in  brilliant  flower,  while 
here  and  there  a  crimson  peach  showed  vivid 
among  the  dazzling  whiteness  as  a  scarlet  tan- 
ager  against  a  snowbank. 

Unconsciously  she  began  to  hum  an  air  and 
then  to  sing  in  a  clear  young  voice,  light  and 
rather  delicate,  but  true  in  pitch: 

"Faites-lui  mes  avoeux,  portes  mes  voeux 
Revellez  a  son  ame, 
Le  secret  de  ma  flamme 
Que  mon  coeur  nuit  et  jour " 

She  stopped  suddenly. 

Just  at  the  opening  of  Washington's  private 
road,  which  the  widening  of  the  hedge  had  con- 
cealed, stood  a  tall  young  fellow,  sketch-book 
in  hand,  soft  felt  hat  pulled  down  over  his  eyes. 


52    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

He  had  on  brownish,  loose-fitting  clothes,  but 
she  noticed  only  the  dark  gray  eyes  and  the 
shock  of  light  hair. 

He  pulled  off  his  cap  quickly.  "I  hope  I'm 
not  trespassing,"  he  said. 

"No,"  she  answered,  "not  unless  you  break 
branches  or  pull  up  plants." 

"It  was  so  like  an  English  garden,"  he  said, 
"and  I  had  to  have  a  bit  of  English  garden.  I 
wish  I  hadn't  stopped  the  song!" 

"Look!"  cried  Roberta,  pointing  to  the  blos- 
soming tree  that  leaned  over  the  hedge  opposite. 
A  brown  thrush  flew  from  the  hedge  top,  lit  on 
the  very  tip  of  a  blossoming  branch,  and  poised 
himself,  swaying  with  the  branch  his  own 
weight  had  set  in  motion.  The  two  watched 
in  silence  till  there  came  a  strain  of  exquisite 
song,  clear  and  high.  A  moment  later  and  it 
was  repeated.  "I  hoped  he'd  do  that!"  she 
breathed,  then  laughed  softly  from  sheer  hap- 
piness. 

"He  sang  it '  twice  over'  for  you,  too !  There's 
'England  in  April'  and  if  you  want  the  'elm  tree 
bole  in  tiny  leaf,'  it's  down  yonder." 

"It  was  perfect,"  said  the  young  man  softly. 


CHAPTER  FOUR  53 

They  waited,  but  the  thrush  did  not  sing  again. 
He  flew  to  a  more  distant  pear  tree. 

Roberta  came  to  herself.  Perhaps  a  thought 
of  Aunt  Adelaide  flashed  across  her  mind. 

"I  am  quite  sure  you  are  not  trespassing," 
she  said  rather  formally,  "but  it  might  be  well 
to  stop  as  you  go  back  and  ask  Mr.  Worthing- 
ton's  permission.     He  would  prefer  it." 

She  nodded  slightly,  turned,  and  disappeared 
past  the  hedge  among  young  dogwoods. 

Paul  Fielding  looked  after  her  till  she  had 
vanished. 

Then  he  turned  to  the  hedges  and  blossoming 
trees.  , 

"Lordy!  but  that  was  pretty,"  he  said.     "I 

wonder  who "     He  tore  up  his  sketch  and 

began  another  rapidly,  suggesting  the  hedge  and 
the  flowering  trees  and  a  girl's  outline  with  a 
splash  of  copper  colour  where  her  head  should 
be. 

Meanwhile,  Miss  Davenant  was  walking 
swiftly  along  a  narrow  footpath  that  skirted 
the  oak  woods. 

She  looked  back. 

No  one  was  in  sight. 


54    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

So  she  began  running,  lightly  and  easily,  with 
the  sureness  of  an  Indian,  until  the  path  ended 
at  a  wagon  track.  Flushed  and  breathing 
quickly,  she  stopped  running  and  put  up  her 
hand  to  her  hair — the  immemorial  feminine  ges- 
ture, for  she  was  nearing  Peter's  "gang,"  and  the 
secretary  to  the  head  of  Roseberry  Gardens  must 
be  dignified,  as  befitted  that  ancient  place. 

Presently  she  saw  the  men.  One  of  them, 
evidently  the  head  workman,  left  his  group  and 
approached. 

"Good  morning,  Peter,"  she  said.  "It's 
just  a  few  things  for  an  order  of  Brian's  that 
are  here." 

She  handed  him  a  slip.  "Bring  these  over 
and  mark  them  for  him,  that's  all." 

"It  was  too  pretty  an  errand  for  Barney," 
she  said  to  herself  as  she  turned  away,  and 
walked  down  the  wagon  track  which  was  a 
short  cut  to  the  office.  It  was  a  lovely  bit  of 
road.  There  were  violets  in  the  grass  along- 
side, and  wild  growth  of  young  oak,  maple,  and 
witch-hazel  arched  the  narrow  road  overhead. 
Presently  she  stopped  to  listen.  There  was 
the  thrush  again. 


CHAPTER  FOUR  55 

"I  oughtn't  to  have  spoken  that  way  with- 
out an  introduction,"  she  said  to  herself  rue- 
fully. "  I  wish  I  didn't  do  things  first  and  think 
afterward!    But  it  was  the  thrush's  fault!" 

"I  met  a  most  estimable  young  man,"  Mr. 
Worthington  reported  when  he  came  in  about 
noon  from  his  walk  around  the  plantation,  where 
Roberta's  acquaintance  had  evidently  found  him. 
"Young  Fielding  is  a  son  of  Colonel  Carlton 
Fielding  of  South  Carolina,  one  of  the  Field- 
ings  of  Paradise  Park  on  the  Cooper.  It  was 
his  great-grandfather,  Carlton  Fielding,  very 
well  known  at  Kew,  who  brought  over  the  first 
Camellia  japonica.  The  largest  specimens  of 
it  in  the  country  are  at  Paradise  Park,  and 
this  young  man  says  the  original  plant  is  still 
living,  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  old !  Very  in- 
teresting." 

"Very,"  said  Roberta. 

"Also,  he  tells  me  his  father  has  naturalized 
the  Indian  azaleas  at  Paradise  Park.  The 
young  man  is  interested  in  landscape  gardening 
and  wishes  to  learn  our  Northern  plants;  his 
father  advised  him  to  visit  here.     So,  if  you 


56    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

will  tell  Michael  and  the  other  foremen  to  give 
him  all  information  possible,  we  shall  be  doing 
our  duty  by  him.  So  few  of  the  young  men 
nowadays  have  any  interest  in  plants!"  sighed 
Mr.  Horace  Worthington  regretfully. 

Miss  Davenant  heard  more  of  the  young 
man  later,  when  Michael  O'Connor  came  in  at 
noon. 

"Who's  the  lad  the  boss  says  we  must  lind  a 
hilpin'  hand  on  the  path  av'  larnin' — him  that 
was  here  this  mornin',  leggy  as  badly  grown 
Rose  of  Sharon,  wid  the  hair  like  a  corn-shock?  " 

"Mr.  Fielding,"  she  answered.  "Mr.  Paul 
Fielding  of  Paradise  Park,  South  Carolina, 
whose  great-great-grandfather  imported  the  first 
Camellia  japonica." 

"He  did,  did  he?"  questioned  Michael. 
"And  what's  to  become  of  my  little  man?  The 
foinest  man  at  buying  camellias  that  America 
has  projuced?" 

Roberta  laughed.  "I  don't  see  how  any- 
thing can  happen  to  Mr.  Herford,  Michael,  so 
long  as  you  take  such  care  of  him." 

"  'Tis  well  I  do,"  said  Michael,  "but  what's 
the  long  lad  doin'  here?  " 


CHAPTER  FOUR  57 

"He's  been  studying  landscape  gardening 
and  wants  to  learn  plants." 

"Lam  plants,"  repeated  Michael.  "If  he 
spiles  things  for  my  little  man,  I'll  larn  him," 
he  said  grimly. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

IF  PEREGRINE  PINK  had  a  poor  sense  of 
time,  Mr.  Maurice  Herford's  was  marvel- 
lously acute. 

Exactly  at  four-thirty  Mr.  Horace  Worthing- 
ton  was  driven  home .  Miss  D avenant,  however, 
remained  until  nearly  six.  She  liked  having  the 
place  to  herself  and  getting  the  work  arranged 
clearly  for  next  day. 

Rarely  did  a  customer  appear  in  the  late 
afternoon,  for  folk  who  came  to  Roseberry 
Gardens  expected  to  spend  an  hour  or  so  among 
the  plants  and  usually  arrived  early — all  except 
Mr.  Maurice  J.  Herf ord !  Exactly  five  minutes 
after  Mr.  Worthington's  carriage  rolled  down 
the  road  toward  the  village,  Mr.  Herford  would 
appear,  coming  along  the  side  road  from  the 
direction  of  the  Philadelphia  Turnpike. 

Mr.  Herford  was  an  old  friend  of  Michael's. 

" '  Tis  twinty  years,"  said  Michael,  "since  Mr. 
Maurice  Herford's  been  comin'  to  Roseberry 

58 


CHAPTER  FIVE  59 

Gardens,  twice  the  season,  and  he's  bought  well 
from  the  first.  Says  he:  ' There's  no  place  I'd 
rather  be,  and  if  I  had  the  sinse  to  do  the  wor-rk,' 
says  he,  'I'd  ask  f'r  a  job  to-morrow.' " 

Maurice  Herford  was  wealthy — very  wealthy 
— a  bachelor  of  forty  odd  and  a  man  of  leisure. 
He  travelled  every  summer  and  belonged  to  but 
one  club  in  the  city — a  rather  fashionable  and 
exclusive  club,  but  its  rooms  were  quiet  and 
overlooked  a  garden.  Maurice  Herford 's  in- 
tense love  was  for  plants.  Besides  the  plants  Her- 
ford really  loved  Michael  O'Connor.  His  most 
vivid  happiness  was  to  come  out  to  Roseberry 
Gardens,  walk  about  the  delightful  old  place,  or 
sit  by  the  greenhouse  benches  to  talk  with  Mi- 
chael of  plants  or  of  Irish  politics. 

Intensely  "Home  Rule"  was  Michael,  and  it 
was  but  little  use  he  had  for  the  English  admin- 
istration. 

"Idle  ould  woman!"  he  would  say  of  the 
late  Queen  Victoria.  "  'Tis  an  idle  ould  woman 
she  is,  wid  a  large  family!  And  by  and  by  a 
little  duke  is  born  somewhere  off  and  thin — 
does  he  aim  his  livin'  ?  Is  he  thrained  to  a  trade, 
seeing  that  the  job  av  King  av  England  is  far 


60    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

from  him?  Not  at  all,  at  all!  As  soon  as  iver 
he  is  born  the  poor  Irish  is  taxed  for  his  main- 
tainance !  And  thin,  there  is  another  little  duke, 
for  ivry  wan  of  the  old  woman's  childern  has 
childern  a-plenty,  and  again  the  poor  Irish  is 
taxed. 

"Of  what  use  is  it?  'Tis  better  to  support  a 
President  and  a  district  leader,  for  the  district 
leader  is  Irish,  an'  'tis  the  Irish  come  in  on  some 
av  the  jobs  inst'id  of  only  an*  exclusively  on 
the  taxes." 

Michael  was  never  done  talking  of  the  charms 
and  virtues  of  his  adored  Maurice  J.  Herford. 

"Foinest  little  man  that  ever  was!  'Tis 
twinty  years  that  he's  been  buying  plants  here. 
Twice  a  season  he  used  to  come.  ( 'Tis  twice  a 
week  since  last  September!)  There's  no  one 
buys  like  him!  'Tis  himself  knows  how  to 
buy. 

"There's  some  that  buy — an'  f'r  thim  'tis 
like  the  pullin'  av  a  tooth;  there's  some — an' 
'tis  like  the  wather  faucet  when  it  won't  run  well 
and  yet  don't  quite  stop — ye  keep  expectin' 
an'  expectin',  an'  maybe  a  little  dribble;  and 
there's  some  an'  they  buy  like  a  machine — 


CHAPTER  FIVE  61 

there's  no  pleasure  in  that;  but  with  some  'tis 
like  a  bubblin'  fountain,  and  that's  Mr.  Her- 
ford.  *  Michael,'  he  says,  givin'  me  his  cheque, 
'there's  some  plants  marked,  ye  can  put  down 
the  cost,  the  cheque  will  cover  it,  and  if  there's 
some  left,  sind  ...  ye  can  sind  somethin' 
pretty.     Use  yer  taste, '  he  says. 

"  'Where  shall  I  sind  them  to? '  says  I. 

"'Oh,  yis,  says  he,  'I  forget,'  says  he.  'Let 
me  see,'  says  he.  'My  word!'  says  he,  'where 
shall  I  sind  them?' 

"Thin  he  thinks  a  bit,  and  thin  pulls  out  a 
card.  'Sind  them  to  Mr.  Stackpole — Hinery 
F.  Stackpole,  av  Chistnut  Hill.  He's  been  after 
buying  a  new  place;  he  should  l'arn  to  buy 
plants,'  he  says.  'To  sind  him  some  is  the  best 
way  to  teach  him.' " 

Because  of  the  careful  arrangement  of  the 
time  table,  it  would  happen  that  when  Mr. 
Herf ord  entered  the  office  he  would  be  surprised 
to  chance  on  the  secretary  only.  His  first  in- 
quiry would  be  for  Mr.  Worthington. 

Miss  Davenant  was  "very  sorry;  he  had  only 
just  gone." 


62    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

"Ah,  yes ! "  Mr.  Herf ord  would  glance  at  the 
clock.  "It  takes  a  good  bit  of  time  to  get  here. 
Michael?     Is  Michael  near  at  hand?" 

Roberta  thought  a  minute.  "I  believe  he's 
at  the  end  of  the  dogwood  plantation;  he  said 
he  was  going  there.  I'll  send  Barney  and  have 
him  here  as  soon  as  possible." 

"About  how  long  would  it  take?" 

Roberta  was  truthful.  "Perhaps  twenty 
minutes." 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  he  would  say,  "I  haven't  the 
time.     It's  a  pity,  too,  to  break  in  on  his  work." 

"Would  one  of  the  other  men  do?"  Roberta 
would  ask — "Pete  is  quite  near,  or  O'Malley?" 

He  would  shake  his  head.  "I'd  rather  have 
Michael.     I  can  easily  come  again." 

Then,  doubtfully— 

"Would  it  be  too  much  trouble?  I  wonder 
if  you  could " 

"It  is  no  trouble,"  Miss  Davenant  would 
answer  in  her  most  businesslike  manner,  "but 
I  don't  know  the  prices  of  specimen  plants." 

Mr.  Maurice  Herford's  face  would  lighten. 
"That  makes  no  difficulty — you  know  the 
location.    If  you  would  only  mark  for  me  the 


CHAPTER  FIVE  63 

ones  I  want,  Michael  can  affix  the  proper  prices 
later.  If  it  would  not  be  too  much  trouble,"  he 
would  repeat  apologetically. 

So  Mr.  Herford  would  have  his  desire  and 
Roberta,  her  pockets  stuffed  with  labels,  would 
go  with  him  out  into  the  late  afternoon  sun- 
shine, along  the  broad  grass  path  and  by  the 
brilliant  azaleas,  stopping  here  and  there  to 
mark  a  plant. 

He  was  rather  silent,  was  Mr.  Herford.  Shy, 
middle-aged,  and  growing  early  gray.  Ro- 
berta's whole  impression  was  of  silvery-gray. 
He  used  to  wear  grayish  clothes.  He  had  a  clear, 
delicate  profile  and  very,  very  unexpectedly 
dark-brown  eyes  that  could  flash  with  sudden 
pleasure. 

Mr.  Herford  chose  his  plants  for  curious 
reasons.  He  selected  some  beautiful  Indian 
azaleas  that  were  over  by  the  hedge.  He  stood 
on  the  grass  path  some  yards  distant,  since 
from  this  point  he  could  tell  which  of  the  plants 
he  wanted.  Also,  he  liked  to  see  Roberta  bend- 
ing over  the  dazzling  whiteness  of  the  azaleas, 
her  head  against  the  dark  background  of  the 
hedge,  her  coppery  hair  in  the  late  afternoon 


64    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

sun  shining  like  an  aureole  of  red-gold.  It  took 
Mr.  Herford  quite  some  time  to  find  the  right 
azaleas ! 

After  about  twenty  minutes  of  selecting  plants, 
he  would  return  contentedly  to  the  office,  where 
Michael  would  probably  be  waiting,  a  smile  of 
bland  contentment  on  his  face. 

"Will  you  let  me  drive  you  in?"  Maurice 
Herford  asked  Roberta  once,  a  shy  hopefulness 
in  his  voice. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said,  "it's  very  kind  of  you, 
but  I  have  work  to  do  that  will  take  until  six 
to  finish.     It's  impossible." 

Mr.  Herford  entered  his  carriage,  carefully 
attended  by  Michael,  and  drove  off  a  bit  re- 
gretful, but  on  the  whole  well  content. 

Michael  returned  to  the  office,  sat  down,  ad- 
justing his  red  neckerchief  with  complacent 
pride. 

"Michael,"  said  the  girl,  "did  you  know  Mr. 
Herford  was  coming  out  this  afternoon?  " 

"He  said  somethin'  of  it  the  other  day," 
replied  Michael  airily,  "but  'twas  nothin'  to  be 
counted  on." 

"And  you  knew  he  was  coming  when  you 


CHAPTER  FIVE  65 

went  to  the  far  end  of  the  dogwood  lot!  And  I 
rang  and  rang  for  Barney ! " 

"I  had  the  lad  with  me  wor-rkin'.  'Tis  a 
shame  he  knows  so  little  about  plants! " 

"Michael!"  she  said  reproachfully. 

"Well!"  he  demanded,  "do  ye  think  I'll  let 
a  tow-headed  lad  have  the  run  of  the  place  all 
morning  and  give  no  chance  to  my  little  man, 
who's  no  brass  because  'tis  pure  gold  he  is? 
Indeed  not! 

"When  ye  first  came  out  to  Roseberry  Gar- 
dens, Miss  Davenant,  Mr.  Worthington  says 
to  me,  says  he,  'Take  good  care  of  her,  Michael,' 
he  says,  'she's  but  wan  gur-rl  in  a  lot  of  men ! ' 
And  ye  may  like  it  or  not,  but  Oi'm  doin'  it," 
concluded  Michael  firmly,  "to  the  extint  of 
what  sinse  the  Holy  Mother  has  given  me! " 


CHAPTER  SIX 

EARLY  as  Roberta  was,  Rudolph  Trom- 
mel was  earlier.  She  would  be  out  at 
the  Gardens  at  seven,  but  the  old  Swiss 
would  already  have  been  up  for  three  hours. 
Invariably  he  gave  a  couple  of  hours  to  his 
beloved  philosophers — Immanuel  Kant,  Scho- 
penhaur,  Fichte,  and  Comte,  or  to  Darwin  and 
Herbert  Spencer  among  the  English.  During 
intervals  of  discourse  on  plants  he  would 
expound  their  theories  to  the  young  secre- 
tary. 

"In  order  properly  to  understand  plants," 
he  would  explain,  "one  must  haf  a  knowledge  of 
philosophy.  Otherwise,  one  believes  exactly 
what  one  is  told,  und  credulity  iss  a  winding- 
sheet  for  knowledge." 

Believing  Kant  too  much  for  Roberta's  mind, 
he  advised  her  to  begin  on  Spencer  and  lent  her 
the  "Synthetic  Philosophy."  In  this,  to  her 
shame  be  it  said,  she  did  not  make  great  prog- 

66 


CHAPTER  SIX  67 

ress,  but  stopped,  fatigued,  at  the  end  of  the 
"Unknowable." 

Trommel  considered  habit  a  menace  to  en- 
lightenment. "I,  myself,  haf  done  much  from 
habit,"  he  said.  "  I  wass  a  member  of  the  church, 
I  wass  confirmid,  und  so  fort.  Und  when  I  came 
to  America,  I  choined  myself  to  the  church  here. 
It  wass  a  matter  of  course. 

"  But  one  Sunday  the  minister  preached  und  he 
said  Darwin  wass  pernicious,  the  worlt  wass  made 
in  sefen  days,  und  such  foolishness.  Darwin  iss 
not  pernicious ;  he  iss  a  fine  intelligence.  I  know 
it. 

"Next  day  I  visit  that  minister  of  the  church 
und  I  ask,  'Why,  on  Sunday,  did  you  say  such 
and  such  things?' 

"'I  belief  them/  he  says;  'it  iss  the  doctrine 
of  the  church.' 

"  'Iss  it  the  doctrine  off  your  church? ' 

"'It  iss,'  he  said. 

"'Und  when  I  choined  myself  to  your  church 
I  subscribed  to  that  doctrine?' 

'"You  did,'  he  says. 

"'I  subscribe  to  it  no  more!'  I  tell  him. 
'I  will  not  hear  men  of  fine  intelligence  called 


68    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

pernicious  when  I  cannot  stand  up  and  say  it 
iss  a  lie.     I  subscribe  no  more ! ' " 

Roberta  laughed.  "You  might  have  been 
burnt  as  a  heretic  years  ago,  Uncle  Rudolph." 

"Perhaps,"    he    agreed,    "but    one    cannot 
lie." 

While  Michael  was  assiduously  selling  to  cus- 
tomers, new  or  old,  Trommel  was  intensely  occu- 
pied with  new  varieties,  in  bloom  for  the  first 
time,  making  careful  notes  of  variances;  seeing 
if  the  sorts  were  true  to  name;  noting  those  which 
should  be  propagated;  marking  plants  which 
were  especially  good,  from  which  grafts  should 
be  taken  later,  and  from  these  Michael  O'Connor 
was  warned  off  by  large  signs,  "DO  NOT 
SELL." 

"He  always  puts  that  mark  on  the  foinest 
plants,"  grumbled  Michael.  "  'Tis  har-rd  whin, 
afther  much  trouble,  you  get  a  man  worked  up 
to  the  buying  point,  wid  a  foine  plant  in  his 
eye,  and  thin  to  come  around  on  the  other  side 
and  read  the  legend  do  not  sell!  'Tis  enough 
to  make  a  man  stop  selling  plants  altogether. 
And  thin  what  wVd  Roseb'ry  Gardens  do?" 

Trommel    (Roberta   felt)    thought   one    ex- 


CHAPTER  SIX  69 

tremely  stupid  who  could  not  recognize  a  plant 
except  in  its  blooming  season. 

"What  rhododendron  iss  that?"  he  would 
question  his  pupil. 

"If  it  were  only  in  bloom " 

"Look  at  the  leafes!  Can  you  not  see  the 
indifi duality?  That  iss  Mrs.  Milner.  Her  leaf 
is  much  flatter  than  the  others.  Und  that?  It 
iss  easy  to  tell  from  the  habit.  That  iss  Charles 
Dickins;  he  iss  straggling,  but  a  beautiful 
colour!" 

Roberta  herself  was  industriously  keeping  a 
journal,  not  of  events,  but  of  the  appearance  in 
bloom  of  one  flower  after  another,  and  as  each 
one  appeared  she  put  it  down. 

Rudolph  Trommel  showed  her  how  to  cut 
branches — exactly  where  the  pruning  should 
be  done  later,  "Und  then  the  plant  suffers  no 
harm."  She  would  always  have  a  budding 
knife  or  a  pair  of  pruning  shears  in  her  pocket, 
and  usually  brought  back  with  her  to  the  office 
dogwood  branches,  or  a  spray  of  azaleas. 

Once  this  early  morning  breathing-space  was 
past,  life  at  Roseberry  Gardens  was  intensely 
busy — never  was  there  a  moment  to  spare. 


70    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

It  was  only  in  the  early  morning  that  Ro- 
berta had  time  to  listen  to  Trommel  and  his 
theories.  For  the  rest  of  the  day  never  were 
barn  swallows  busier  than  were  she  and  Michael 
O'Connor.  The  spring  was  coming  with  a  rush, 
and  all  deciduous  trees  must  be  shipped  before 
they  leafed  out;  afterward  it  was  hazardous. 
Evergreens  could  wait  a  bit,  also  azaleas  and 
magnolias;  but  the  flowering  trees  and  shrubs 
must  go  immediately. 

"That  iss  the  way  of  gardens,"  old  Rudolph 
would  say  placidly  (for  having  nothing  to  do 
with  the  shipping,  the  rush  of  the  spring  business 
left  him  unmoved).  "Children  are  so  also, 
although  people  try  to  make  them  ofer  into 
lockstep.  It  is  nature  und  it  iss  growth.  It 
may  be  it  iss  also  business.  Frantic  haste  und 
then  quiescence  und  peace.  That  iss  plants 
und  that  is  nurseries." 

It  mattered  little  if  plants  were  in  bloom,  for 
the  naked  flowering  shrubs  had  had  their  blos- 
soms ready  all  winter  to  push  out  at  the  first 
warming  of  the  branches;  but  the  foliage  meant 
root  activity. 

So,  into  the  long  packing  shed  came  the  heaps 


CHAPTER  SIX  71 

and  heaps  of  flowering  shrubs,  buds  faintly 
showing,  just  ready  to  blossom;  and  tirelessly, 
with  unfailing  cheerfulness,  did  Michael  O'Con- 
nor everywhere  superintend  the  work,  pushing 
along  the  elderly  workmen  who,  without  realiz- 
ing it,  fairly  trotted  about  their  tasks,  for  an  old 
gardener  is  deft  and  skilful  in  handling  plants, 
and  can  work  with  real  rapidity,  while  brawn  and 
ignorance  may  break  the  roots. 

The  packing  sheds  were  more  fragrant  and 
flowery  than  ever.  Roberta  liked  the  necessary 
running  in  and  out  with  tags  and  shipping  di- 
rections, seeing  to  the  careful  wrapping  of  the 
roots,  and  tying  up  the  lovely  living  things  into 
long,  mummy-like  bundles  that  seemed  to 
thrust  legs  and  heads  helplessly  from  the  big 
truckloads  every  morning.  There  must  be 
holes  cut  in  the  sides  of  the  cases  so  that  the 
evergreens  might  breathe.  Each  rhododendron 
had  its  ball  of  roots  wrapped  in  burlap  and  tied 
with  twine,  packed  to  fit  in  the  box  held  by 
cleats  so  that  the  tops  were  free.  Conklin 
could  glance  at  a  heap  of  plants  and  make  a 
box  to  fit  it  exactly.  Roberta  liked  the  feeling 
of  the  sphagnum  moss  that  was  used  for  packing. 


72    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

She  would  not  for  anything  have  missed  the 
early  shipping,  the  "seeing  plants  off"  on  their 
great  adventure  and  wishing  them  luck.  "To 
think  that  Ellen  Griscom  (her  predecessor  at 
the  office)  crocheted  in  her  spare  minutes!" 
She  exclaimed  to  her  Aunt  Adelaide:  "It's  like 
not  bothering  to  look  at  your  stocking  Christ- 
mas morning!" 

Occasionally  to  a  nearby  estate  a  load  went 
unpacked,  the  trees  standing  upright,  closely 
fitted  into  the  wagon  floor,  while  on  an  embow- 
ered seat  sat  the  grim,  sour  Tompkins,  or  the 
grinning  Washington,  looking  as  if  he  were 
bringing  Burnam  Woods  to  Dunsinane. 

"How  can  Tompkins  grumble  so  with  those 
flowering  peaches  almost  all  over  him?"  asked 
Roberta  of  Michael. 

"If  he  was  to  drive  into  Hivin  wid  palm 
branches  wavin'  round  and  angels  showin'  him 
the  way,  he'd  be  disgruntled!"  was  the  reply. 

"Cheer  up,  man!"  called  Michael,  who  teased 
the  luckless  teamster  sometimes.  "  'Tis  the 
Babes  in  the  Woods  that  you  an'  Washington 
arre,  and  I'm  the  crule  Uncle  that's  drivin' 
you  off.     But  mind  ye  don't  lose  the  way ! " 


CHAPTER  SIX  73 

Toward  the  end  of  May  things  went  in  more 
leisurely  fashion.  The  shipping  was  rapid, 
but  there  was  less  haste  and  little  anxiety. 
The  azaleas  and  rhododendrons,  the  young 
evergreens  forwarded  now  were  not  so  perish- 
able; a  trifling  delay  was  not  so  serious  a  matter. 
Now,  rather  than  earlier  in  the  season,  came 
those  flower-loving  folk  who  preferred  to  select 
their  plants  when  in  bloom — peonies,  rhodo- 
dendrons, or  roses — and  to  have  them  marked 
for  later  shipment.  Forethought  is  ever  a  gar- 
dener's virtue. 

There  came  also  landscape  gardeners,  too 
busy  to  visit  earlier,  to  see  and  note  the 
varieties  they  liked.  Some  of  these  were  old 
friends  of  Michael's,  for  he  had  a  wide  and 
varied  circle  of  acquaintances.  Some  would 
be  newcomers,  and  some,  like  Paul  Fielding, 
would  be  students. 

A  university  professor,  an  old  friend  of 
Michael's,  brought  with  him  for  his  first  visit, 
one  afternoon,  an  English  landscape  gardener. 
Michael,  who  was  in  the  office,  saw  the  pair  as 
they  approached,  walking  from  the  station. 

"Faith,"  he  said  to  Roberta,  "  'tis  my  friend 


74    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

the  professor,  wit'  his  university  job  again! 
'Michael/  says  he  to  me,  says  he,  'if  ever  ye  get 
a  chanst  to  sit  down,  Michael,  there's  a  chair 
av  Botany  an'  Horticulture  awaitin'  for  you 
at  the  university!'  I'll  be  after  wantin'  it 
soon,"  said  Michael  as  he  was  leaving  the  office 
to  greet  them.     "My  bones  are  gettin'  old." 

When  he  had  finished  with  his  customers  he 
came  back  to  the  office,  sat  down  in  a  big  arm- 
chair, leaned  back  and  wiped  the  perspiration 
from  his  brow.  "Hm,"  he  said,  "did  ye  see 
the  Englishman  Professor  Prentiss  had  wid 
him — him  with  the  checked  suit  and  the  fat- 
ness?" 

Roberta  nodded. 

"  'Tis  Mr.  Jameson  Porsythe,  he  is,  av  Lon- 
don, and  he's  come  here  to  show  us  how  to  lay 
out  gardens,  he  has,  but  'tis  little  he  knows 
about  buyin'  plants,  though  I've  larned  him 
somethin'  to-day!" 

Michael  settled  his  red  neckerchief  and  smiled 
with  satisfaction. 

"What  did  you  do  to  him,  Michael?"  asked 
the  young  secretary,  a  spark  of  amusement  in 
her  eyes. 


CHAPTER  SIX  75 

"I  sold  him  some  plants,"  said  Michael 
grimly,  "an'  if  he  comes  out  again,  he'll  buy  as 
he  should!" 

He  chuckled. 

"At  fir-rst  'twas,  'How  much  is  that?'  p'intin' 
to  a  foine  rhodydendron. 

"  'Two  dollars  and  a  half,'  says  I. 

"'Too  much,'  says  he. 

'And  that?'  p'intin'  to  as  handsome  an  Abra- 
ham Lincoln  as  ye  might  wish  to  see. 

"'Five  dollars,'  says  I. 

"'I  c'u'd  buy  it  for  ten  shillin'  in  the  ould 
country.     And  that?' 

"  'Siven  and  a  half,'  says  I. 

"'I  c'u'd  buy  two  better  f'r  a  pound  in  the 
ould  country,'  says  he. 

"I  was  tired  out  wid  him,  so  I  says  to  Pro- 
fessor Prentiss,  'Y'r  fri'nd  reminds  me  of  the 
Irishman  that  wint  up  fr'm  Dublin  to  Lon- 
don.' 

'"How's  that?'  says  he. 

"And  Mr.  Jameson  Forsythe  he  pricks  up 
his  ears,  too,  and  'How's  that?'  says  he. 

'"There  was  an  Irishman  that  wint  up  fr'm 
Dublin  to  London,  and  he  wint  into  a  shop  to 


76    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

buy  eggs.  'How  much  is  they?'  says  he  to  the 
shopkeeper. 

"  'A  penny  apiece,'  says  the  man. 

"'Faith,'  says  the  Irishman,  'I  c'u'd  buy  two 
f  'r  ha'penny  in  the  ould  country ! ' 

"'Well,'  says  the  shopkeeper,  'an'  why  didn't 
ye  stay  there  thin? ' 

"'Faith,'  he  says,  'I  c'u'dn't  find  the  ha'- 
penny!' 

"Professor  Prentiss,  he  laughed  and  laughed, 
and  Mr.  Forsythe  he  looked  a  bit  mad,  but  he 
bought  like  a  lamb  after  that  and  niver  a  word 
did  he  say  about  prices!    Niver  a  wor-rd! 

"Ye  see,"  Michael  explained  to  Miss  Dave- 
nant,  chuckling  again,  "  'tis  exactly  the  way 
wid  those  English  gardeners.  Av  course  they 
can  buy  the  plants  cheaper  there,  but  'tis  here 
they  come  f'r  the  ha'pennies — the  people  with 
the  money  to  spind. 

"'Tis  an  ar-rt  it  is,  to  sell  plants.  There's 
some  ye  have  to  lead  along  gintly  and  tinderly; 
there's  others,  like  Mr.  Jameson  Forsythe,  that 
ye  have  to  larn  a  lesson. 

"  Mr.  Penfield  was  here  to-day,  wid  his  wife, 
and  sorry  I  was  to  see  thim  come  together. 


CHAPTER  SIX  77 

Take  Mister  Penfield  alone,  he'll  buy  well. 
Take  Mrs.  Penfield  alone,  and  she'll  buy  well! 
But  he's  a  shy  buyer  when  his  wife  is  wid  him ! " 

Michael  could  diagnose  a  customer  with  the 
skill  of  an  accomplished  physician  diagnosing  a 
case,  and  give  him  exactly  the  right  treatment. 

It  was  a  different  form  of  instruction  from  that 
which  Roberta  obtained  from  Rudolph  Trom- 
mel or  Mr.  Worthington,  but  it  was  intensely 
interesting  and  afforded  her  much  amusement. 

"Oh,  yis,"  she  heard  Michael  say  to  a  hand- 
somely dressed  woman  who  was  looking  approv- 
ingly at  a  very  inexpensive  plant,  "that  might 
do  well  enough  for  some  people,  but  it's  not  the 
thing  f 'r  your  place ! "  And  the  good  soul  would 
think  her  elegance  had  so  impressed  Michael 
she  would  buy  anything  he  suggested. 

"And  so  you're  the  owner  av  the  old  Norris 
place  on  the  Pike?"  (This  to  a  newcomer  who 
had  just  told  him  where  his  estate  was.)  "  Well, 
I  am  glad,"  said  Michael  cordially,  "to  larn 
that  the  foine  old  place  has  come  at  last  into 
intelligent  hands!  I  was  always  tellin'  Cap- 
tain Norris  that  the  wan  thing  he  needed,  to 
make  that  the  foinest  place  on  the  Turnpike, 


78    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

was  to  have  a  plantation  of  evergreen  up  the 
hill,  to  put  a  foine  hedge  in  front,  to  plant 
shrubs  an'  a  few  trees  to  cut  off  completely  the 
sight  av'  the  fact'ry.  But  he  never  had  the 
sinse  to  do  it.  And  to  think  that  as  soon  as  ye 
bought  it  ye  should  have  came  out  to  Rose- 
b'ry  Gardens !    Well,  I  am  glad ! " 

Of  course  the  gentleman  bought  well. 

Aside  from  affording  her  this  kind  of  instruc- 
tive amusement  Roberta  found  a  stanch  friend 
in  Michael  O'Connor.  She  made  surprisingly 
few  mistakes,  owing  to  her  intense  interest  in 
the  business,  but  of  course  there  were  some 

Once  an  irate  dealer  came  out,  a  man  who 
posed  as  a  nurseryman  though  his  grounds 
were  but  a  seven  by  nine  downtown  office. 
The  Roseberry  Garden  tag  had  been  left  on  the 
plants;  he  had  ordered  it  omitted.  The  plants 
must  look  as  if  they  came  from  his  nursery. 

"Do  see  him,  Michael!"  begged  Miss  Dave- 
nant.     "  He's  very  angry ! " 

"Indeed  I  will,"  said  Michael,  who  went 
out  to  meet  the  wrathful  dealer  with  his  most 
beaming  smile. 

"Why,  Mister  Kelly!"  he  said.     "Indeed, 


CHAPTER  SIX  79 

and  it's  foine  to  see  you.  And  how  well  yo're 
looking.  And  how  is  Mrs.  Kelly  and  the  foine 
little  b'y  that  was  here  wid  you  last  year? 
'Tis  well  I  hope  they  are.  And  ar-re  ye  goin' 
to  have  the  b'y  in  the  business  like  y'rself  ?  " 

The  angry  worthy  was  smiling  back  before 
he  realized  it,  and  all  he  said  by  way  of  com- 
plaint was,  and  that  apologetically,  "There 
was  a — er — little  mistake  in  the  last  order." 

"How  did  you  do  it,  Michael?  "  asked  Roberta 
when  Mr.  Kelly  was  gone. 

Michael  grinned  complacently. 

"Molasses,"  he  said.  "  'Tis  simple,  but  it 
wor-rks." 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

TWICE  a  week,  all  through  the  busy 
season,  with  unfailing  regularity,  ex- 
actly five  minutes  after  Mr.  Worth- 
ington's  scheduled  departure,  did  Mr.  Maurice 
J.  Herford  appear  at  Roseberry  Gardens. 

If  the  circumstances  were  favourable  he 
bought  plants  with  joy  and  abandon,  his  only 
difficulty  being  where  to  send  them. 

Sometimes,  though  rarely,  the  circumstances 
were  unfavourable.  Once  the  copper-haired 
secretary  was  too  busy  with  another  client  to 
do  more  than  look  up  and  nod.  Then  Mr. 
Herford  reentered  his  carriage  and  drove  home. 
Once  Mr.  Worthington  was  delayed  in  leaving, 
and  recognizing  the  occupant  of  the  approaching 
carriage,  bade  Peregrine  take  back  his  own 
coupe  and  bring  it  again  at  five. 

"I  seem  to  have  missed  your  visits  so  often," 
he  said  to  Mr.  Herford,  who  was  "very  sorry." 

The  two  walked  about  the  azalea  plantation 

80 


CHAPTER  SEVEN  81 

discussing  modern  horticulture  and  the  dearth 
of  American  writers  thereon,  owing,  in  Mr. 
Worthington's  opinion,  to  the  dearth  of  expert 
garden  knowledge  among  American  clergymen. 
"In  England, "  said  he,  "the  clergy — a  most  use- 
ful class — write  both  intelligently  and  pleasantly 
about  gardens.  Men  like  Dean  Hole,  for  exam- 
ple." Mr.  Herford  agreed  and  deplored  the 
lack,  but  he  left  no  large-sized  order  to  cheer  the 
heart  of  Michael. 

Usually,  however,  Michael  had  acted  the  part 
of  stage  manager  for  his  favourite  so  skilfully 
that  such  casualties  were  avoided. 

"Mr.  Herford  will  be  here  this  afternoon," 
he  announced  impressively  to  Roberta  one  morn- 
ing in  late  May. 

"Well,"  she  said  indifferently,  "that  should 
make  you  happy,  Michael." 

"It  does  that,"  he  said,  "except  that  to-day, 
f 'r  the  life  of  me,  I  can't  attend  to  him  properly ! 
'Tis  a  shame,  too,  the  foine  man  he  is!  Mr. 
Sanger,  the  archytect,  will  be  out  here  till  late, 
and  Charley  Frear,  of  Charles  Frear  &  Sons,  the 
big  florists.     'Tis  har'rd! 

"I  wonder,"  he  exclaimed,  his  face  lighting 


82    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

up,  "I  wonder  if  you  c'u'dn't  do  it?  There's 
none  of  the  min  I'd  trust  wid  the  job.  But  the 
plants  arre  all  marked.  T'w'u'd  be  aisy  for 
wan  that  knows  thim  so  well  as  you  to  take  him 
t'rough  the  azaleas,  an'  over  by  the  hedge  is 
some  marked  f'r  him.  Just  show  thim  to  him 
and  put  thim  down  if  they're  what  he  wants. 
And  thin  ye  take  him  down  to  the  End  Entirely 
(and  that's  a  plisant  walk  in  the  afternoon), 
and  there's  four  golden  retinosporas  marked 
f'r  him  there.  And  thin,  ye  take  him  along  by 
the  woods  to  the  end  av  the  dogwoods  (and 
that9 s  a  plisant  walk) ,  till  ye  come  to  some  red- 
flowering  dogwoods,  wid  his  tag.  And  thin,  ye 
bring  him  along  to  the  farm  road,  and  just  before 
ye  get  there  is  some  specimen  rhodydendrons 
(and  that's  a  plisant  walk).  I'm  sure  ye'll  not 
mind  it,  Miss  Davenant!  Indeed,  I'd  take 
him  if  I  c'u'd,  but  ye  can  see  f'r  yerself,  'tis  a 
long  way  round  and  I'll  be  on  me  ould  feet  all 
day " 

"Michael!"  said  Roberta,  "Mr.  Herford  is 
your  client." 

Just  then  Mr.  Worthington  came  in. 

"I  was  just  explainin'  to  Miss  Davenant," 


CHAPTER  SEVEN  83 

said  Michael  guilelessly,  "where  were  the  plants 
I'd  marked  f'r  Mr.  Herford.  'Tis  scattered  all 
over  the  place  they  are,  and  I'm  afraid  I'll  not 
have  time  to  take  him  wid  Mr.  Sanger  to  be 
here  all  the  afternoon.  'Tis  well  some  one 
should  know  their  location.  I  don't  like  to 
disapp'int  him!" 

Mr.  Worthington  nodded  approvingly.  But 
Roberta  scowled  at  Michael.  None  the  less, 
that  afternoon,  with  the  exactness  of  an  actor 
entering  at  his  cue,  Mr.  Herford  made  his  ap- 
pearance, a  bit  earlier  than  usual.  Mr.  Worth- 
ington, Matthew  Sanger,  and  Frear,  the  florist, 
were  in  the  office  when  he  entered.  Michael 
turned  with  a  troubled  look  to  Mr.  Worthington. 

"C'u'd  ye  spare  Miss  Davenant  this  afternoon? 
She's  the  only  wan  but  mesilf  that  knows  where 
arre  the  plants  I've  marked  f'r  Mr.  Herford. 
I've  promised  Mr.  Sanger — Frear  is  going  wid 
Brian  now,  but  I'll  go  over  his  list  wid  him  later. 
I'm  sorry  to  trouble " 

"Surely,  as  far  as  I'm  concerned,"  responded 
the  old  gentleman.  "  It  is  a  pleasant  afternoon ; 
the  other  work  can  wait." 

So  Roberta  picked  up  her  hat  and  notebook 


84    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

and  went  out  into  the  late  sunshine,  casting  a 
look  of  reproach  at  Michael,  but  he  grinned  back 
cheerfully.  She  smiled  in  spite  of  herself  with 
amused  vexation. 

Roberta  really  liked  Mr.  Herford.  She 
would  have  liked  him  better  if  Michael  had 
been  less  assiduous,  but  Maurice  Herford  him- 
self had  little  to  do  with  Michael's  deep-laid 
schemes.  He  only  obeyed  his  mentor  literally 
and  exactly. 

Roberta  rather  liked  his  shyness  and  the 
sudden  pleasure  that  would  light  his  face  at  the 
sight  of  a  rarely  lovely  plant.  She  liked  his 
detachment,  liked  that  he  never  intruded  or 
insisted  and  never  brought  in  a  personal  ele- 
ment. She  was  ignorant,  as  the  plants  them- 
selves, that  he  arranged  to  see  her  head  in  cer- 
tain lights  against  the  green  background.  He 
could  talk  entertainingly  also,  and  used  to  tell 
her  about  famous  English  gardens,  Hampton 
Court,  Hadden  Hall,  the  terraces  at  St.  Cath- 
erine's, or  the  lovely  little  Ranelagh  made  by 
Charles  for  Nell  Gwynn. 

So  the  two  went  in  and  out  among  the  plants, 
now  brushing  against  the  huge  tree  peonies  of 


CHAPTER  SEVEN  85 

Japan,  now  bending  over  gorgeous  irises,  very 
rainbows  in  colour. 

To  real  flower  lovers  there  is  as  little  neces- 
sity for  chatter  in  a  garden  as  to  a  music  lover 
the  need  of  gossip  at  a  concert.  It  is  enough  to 
drink  in  the  beauty. 

Maurice  Herford  was  a  dreamer  as  well  as  a 
recluse.  Perhaps  he  could  not  have  formulated 
to  himself  exactly  what  he  wanted  with  the 
coppery-haired  young  girl  at  Roseberry  Gar- 
dens, whose  profile  and  head  outline  he  loved 
to  watch  among  the  plants.  She  was  young, 
unspoiled,  eager.  She  had  youthful  interests 
and  ambitions.  He  had  no  wish  to  cut  things 
short  for  her;  it  would  be  like  stunting  a  lovely 
plant,  he  thought.  She  wished  to  be  a  land- 
scape gardener — very  well.  His  question  to 
himself  was,  at  what  point  could  he  assist?  One 
thing  he  knew — it  was  no  more  her  time  to 
love  than  it  had  been  Evelyn  Hope's.  For 
her  it  was  the  growing  season,  rapid,  eager, 
happy,  and  very  sweet  to  watch. 

Meantime,  there  was  no  harm  in  visioning,  as 
he  did,  the  broad  grassy  terraces  before  his  own 
country  house  with  Roberta  pacing  them — in 


86    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

white  she  would  be — he  could  see  her  light  gown 
trailing  over  the  grass.  She  would  go  down  the 
steps  into  the  garden;  then  he  would  see  her 
against  the  background  of  tall  dark  hedges; 
she  would  be  standing  beside  the  hedge  now. 
There  was  larkspur  there,  deep,  dull-blue  lark- 
spur, and  madonna  lilies;  he  could  see  her  bend 
over  them  as  she  was  bending  now  over  the  iris, 
touching  the  petals  gently. 

"You're  very  lovely!"  he  said  to  the  vision  of 
Roberta  in  his  own  garden,  but  was  startled, 
aghast,  to  find  he  had  spoken  aloud,  for  Miss 
Davenant  turned  quickly,  startled  also.  Then 
she  laughed. 

But  the  spell  was  broken,  the  unconscious- 
ness was  gone,  the  pictures  had  disappeared, 
and  in  a  most  businesslike  fashion  the  rest  of  the 
list  was  completed. 

However,  Mr.  Maurice  Herford  drove  home 
well  pleased  with  life.  In  his  great,  silent, 
handsome  house  the  pictures  would  come  back 
to  heart's  content.  Sometimes  he  even  made 
her  sit  opposite  him  at  dinner,  at  the  solid 
mahogany  table,  and  he  knew  how  the  candle- 
light would  strike  her  burnished  hair;  and  he 


CHAPTER  SEVEN  87 

saw  the  wide  gray  eager  eyes  smile  at  him  across 
the  bowl  of  roses. 

Later  he  sat  in  the  big  library,  deep  in  a 
leather  chair,  and  smoked  silently  in  the  dusk, 
while  the  garden  pictures  came  again. 

"  (Du  bist  wie  eine  Blume,9"  he  said  softly. 

"It  seems  a  pity  even  to  try  to  pick  it — so 
very  sweet  to  watch " 

That  is  where  the  dreamers  have  the  best  of 
things,  for  no  one  can  take  away  their  visions. 
It's  the  tangible  in  life,  the  realized  visions, 
that  become  broken  and  spoiled. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

WHEN  the  busy  season  of  shipping  was 
over,  Roseberry  Gardens  felt  like  a 
household  after  a  Christmas  celebra- 
tion— exhausted  but  happy.  It  rested  a  bit, 
then  it  drew  its  breath,  put  things  in  their  ac- 
customed order,  and  took  up  ordinary  life  again. 

Instead  of  drawing  in  big  trucks  each  morn- 
ing, the  horses  were  set  to  ploughing.  It  was 
fascinating  to  watch  them,  for  here  again  the 
skill  of  the  old  gardeners  showed  itself.  Timmy 
could  drive  a  horse  and  plough  between  rows  of 
rare  plants  and  never  injure  the  smallest  branch, 
so  well  did  he  and  the  horse  know  their  business. 

There  was  transplanting  of  young  evergreens 
to  be  done,  late  for  an  amateur,  but  accom- 
plished rapidly  and  successfully.  There  were 
baby  trees  to  be  shifted  from  the  greenhouse; 
benches  to  the  frames,  young  grafted  magnolias 
and  Japanese  maples,  an  army  of  them,  to  be 
moved  from  houses  to  frames  for  the  first  year 

88 


CHAPTER  EIGHT  89 

on  their  feet.  In  two  more  they  would  be  in 
the  open. 

All  of  this  work  was  superintended  by  Ru- 
dolph Trommel  who,  with  a  young  plant,  was 
as  solicitous  as  a  mother  over  a  baby.  One 
would  see  him  sometimes  bending  over,  looking 
down  with  adoring  affection  on  the  infant  rhodo- 
dendrons, up  to  their  necks  in  soft,  damp 
sphagnum  moss,  like  babies  snugly  tucked  in 
downy  blankets.  "Oh  the  dear  lady,  the  dear 
lady!"  he  would  say,  smiling  down  on  the 
helpless  little  Mrs.  Milners. 

"It  iss,"  he  used  to  explain  to  Roberta,  "as 
it  iss  with  chiltren.  The  common  seedlings, 
they  are  the  peasants:  they  haf  large  families 
und  they  take  little  or  no  care,  und  somehow 
the  chiltren  grow  up.  But  these,  these  are  the 
aristocrats.  They  must  haf  care  und  attend- 
ance und  governesses  und  nurses.  Und  if 
you  let  them  shift  for  themselfes,  they  may 
die." 

Never  did  Royalist  believe  more  passionately 
in  the  divine  right  of  the  aristocracy  than  did 
Trommel  in  the  precedence  which  should  be 
accorded  to  the  aristocrats  among  plants. 


90    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

There  was  for  him  no  preferred  nationality. 
He  cared  not  if  the  plant  were  Russian  or  Jap- 
anese or  English  or  Hollander;  if  it  had  the 
earmarks  of  the  aristocrat  among  plants,  that 
was  enough. 

Curiously  and  amusingly  his  political  faith 
echoed  his  beliefs  in  horticulture. 

"My  country,  right  or  wrong,  iss  foolishness," 
he  would  say.  "That  is  the  difficulty.  So  far 
as  I  haf  obserfed,  the  political  people  start  with 
the  premise  that  the  country's  position  iss 
right  und  has  been  right.  Und  that  action 
must  be  adjusted  to  that  conclusion.  Und 
when  the  premise  iss  wrong,  naturlich  there  iss 
difficulty.  A  man  should  say,  'My  fine  big 
country,  sometimes  I  admire  you.  Now  you 
are  wrong,  und  this  little  country  iss  right. 
Haf  the  courage  and  honesty  to  say  so!'  Und, 
if  efery  man  so  considered,  there  would  be  no 
war.  A  man  would  say:  'I  cannot  fight  for  an 
erroneous  opinion,'  und  he  would  not,  not  for  a 
King  or  a  President  or  a  Ministry,  for  why 
should  he  lay  down  his  life  for  an  opinion  which 
he  does  not  hold?  Und  if  he  iss  shot  because 
he  will  not  fight,  he  has  the  satisfaction  of  being 


CHAPTER  EIGHT  91 

shot  in  defence  of  his  opinion,  not  in  defence  of 
another  man's  opinion.  No  animal  iss  so  fool- 
ish. They  are  like  herds,  those  big  nations, 
und  not  like  indifiduals." 

"Aren't  you  German,  Uncle  Rudolph?"  asked 
Roberta. 

The  old  man  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"I  speak  Cherman,  but  I  thank  Gott" — he 
thumped  his  broad  chest — "I  am  not  Cherman! 
Und  I  speak  French,  but" — again  he  thumped 
his  chest — "I  thank  Gott  I  am  not  French. 
Und  I  speak  Italian,  but  I  thank  Gott  I  am 
not  Italian.  Und  I  speak  Swedish,  but  I  thank 
Gott  I  am  not  Swedish.  Und  I  speak  English, 
but  I  thank  Gott  I  am  not  English.  Und  I 
speak  Dutch,  but  I  thank  Gott  I  am  no  Hol- 
lander. What  am  I?  IamaSwitzer!"  And  he 
pounded  his  chest  more  vehemently  than  ever 
and  breathed  deep  with  patriotism  for  his  gallant 
little  country. 

"Wass  not  Zwingli  before  Luther,  und  wass 
he  not  more  broad  minded,  while  Luther,  like 
most  reformers,  wass  narrow?  If  one  agreed 
not  with  him  he  should  go  to  Hell!  A  Switzer 
thinks  for  himself!"  he  said  with  pride. 


92    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

The  summer  passed  quietly  and  happily. 

All  the  long  July  days  Paul  Fielding  came  and 
went  at  Roseberry  Gardens,  notebook  in  hand. 
Scant  help  did  he  get  from  Michael. 

"'Tis  never  a  gardener  he'll  make,  that  lad. 
He  looks  straight  at  a  rhodydendron,  a  foine 
album  grandiflorum:  "Tis  a  foine  snowball, '  says 
he. 

"'It  is  indeed,'  says  I,  'the  foinest  snowball 
ye'd  see  in  a  week's  journey.  Ye'd  best  put 
it  down  in  your  book.'  And  Reilly  says  that 
whin  he  saw  Washy's  potato  patch  down  by  the 
End  Entirely  he  says : 

"'What  is  it?' says  he. 

"'It's  privet,'  says  Reilly. 

"'Indeed,'  says  he,  an'  he  puts  it  down  in  his 
book.  I  hear  that  it's  writing  a  play  he  is! 
'Tis  well;  indeed,  play '11  suit  him  better  than 
work.'" 

But  Paul  Fielding  had  another  attraction  be- 
sides his  more  or  less  intermittent  garden  en- 
thusiasm. He  owned  a  good  saddle  horse,  and 
many  a  morning  he  would  be  at  the  Davenant 
house  before  the  good  ladies  were  astir  and  before 
Roberta  was  off  for  her  early  session  with  old 


CHAPTER  EIGHT  93 

Trommel,  bringing  with  him  Major  Pomerane 
for  chaperon  and  backer.  The  Major  was  a  dis- 
tant connection  and  could  furnish  an  extra 
mount. 

Roberta  never  could  resist  a  horse,  and  Paul 
Fielding  was  clever  enough  to  discover  it.  The 
three  would  be  off  in  the  charm  of  the  early 
morning  and  come  back  for  eight  o'clock  break- 
fast in  the  Davenant  garden,  where  Miss  Ade- 
laide would  join  them,  feeling  rather  wicked  but 
none  the  less  enjoying  herself  greatly. 

She  was  older  and  feebler  than  in  the  days  of 
Roberta's  mother,  and  the  girl's  strong  young 
spirit  carried  her  easily  away  before  the  thought 
of  resisting. 

"You'll  never  accomplish  it,  my  boy,"  said 
Major  Pomerane  once  as  the  two  went  off  to- 
gether. He  was  rather  fond  of  Paul  and  hugely 
interested. 

"Might  have  done  something  a  year  ago, 
but  she's  got  her  head  too  full  of  those  old  fossils 
at  the  Roseberry  Gardens.  There  one  just  lives 
until  he  fairly  totters  about  the  place,  and  then 
he  dies.  I  believe  a  typewriter  girl  got  out, 
but  she  never  was  of  it — never  was  infected. 


94    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

Roberta's  got  it  and  got  it  bad.  You'd  think 
that  old  gnome  of  a  Trommel  was  a  Calypso, 
or  Circe. 

"Besides,  what's  the  gray-haired  fellow's 
name  that  keeps  coming  all  the  time?  " 

"Herford,"  said  Paul  Fielding  in  disgust. 

"That's  it,  Maurice  Herford.  He  could  buy 
and  sell  you  and  Paradise  Park  dozens  of  times 
over.  He's  another  old  dodderer  over  gar- 
dens. You  may  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
him  and  Roberta  drive  by  in  a  handsome  auto 
when  you're  afoot." 

"If  I  had  a  good  dog  with  me,  there'd  be  some 
chance  of  getting  her  out,"  said  Paul. 


CHAPTER  NINE 

WOULD  ye  like  to  Tarn  to  bud,  Miss 
Davenant?"  inquired  Michael. 
"  Tis  evident  ye  know  all  that's 
necessary  about  bloomin'  an'  blossomin',  but  I 
mean  wid  a  buddin'  knife  an'  a  budstick  an' 
Michael  O'Connor  and  over  by  the  Farm?  I'm 
buddin'  over  there  wid  Pat  McCrae.  He's  tyin' 
f 'r  me,  but  I  can  keep  ahead  of  the  two  av  yez." 

"Indeed  I  would!"  said  Roberta. 

"There's  that  f'r  you."  He  handed  her  an 
ivory-handled,  thin-bladed  clasp-knife,  and  then 
a  small  bundle  of  twigs.  "  Ye're  to  be  assistant, 
an'  the  assistant  must  carry  the  equipment." 

The  back  road  from  the  office  was  narrow  and 
shaded.  On  either  side,  past  a  narrow  fringe  of 
young  over-arching  trees,  stretched  the  nursery 
plantation.  Alongthe  fence  was  a  tangle  of  trum- 
pet-vine, with  wide-throated,  flame-coloured 
bells.  There  were  rows  and  rows  of  the  white 
baccharis,  fluffy  as  seeding  dandelion  turned 

95 


96    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

shrub;  the  tall  feathery  coral  of  tamarisk  bushes; 
smoke-trees  in  a  purplish  mist,  reflecting  won- 
derfully the  faint  haze  of  the  August  morn- 
ing. 

"I'm  after  thinkin',"  commented  Michael 
complacently,  "that  th'  Almighty  must  have  a 
high  opinion  of  folks  like  you  an'  me  an'  Mr. 
Worthington  an'  Mr.  Trommel  an9  Mr.  Mau- 
rice J.  Herford.  He  makes  so  many  things  to 
be  enj'yed  exclusively  by  us!  The  way  most 
people  call  f 'r  plants,  until  ye  teach  thim  better, 
makes  me  fair  disgusted!  Ye'd  think  the 
Almighty  made  no  hedge  but  the  California 
privet,  and  no  shrubs  at  all,  at  all,  but  Hydrangea 
paniculata,  and  Spiraea  Van  Houttei,  an'  Ber- 
beris  Thunbergii,  p'raps  a  variegated  weigela, 
an'  maybe  the  common  althea — that  Oi  w'u'dn't 
put  in  a  Williamsburg  backyard!  That  there 
wasn't  a  vine  in  the  wor-rld  but  a  Hall's  honey- 
suckle and  a  niver  a  rose  but  a  Crimson  Ram- 
bler! 'Tis  plain,  I  say,  that  he  values  you  an' 
me  an'  Mr.  Maurice  J.  Herford ! 

"Does  anny  one  ask  for  that?"  he  demanded, 
pointing  to  a  beautifully  shaped  shrub,  with 
smooth,  rounded  foliage,  like  that  of  a  miniature 


CHAPTER  NINE  97 

orange  tree,  and  small  clustered  berries  of  a 
wonderful  blue,  between  peacock  and  turquoise. 
"  Tis  Symplocus  crataegoides,  but  niver  a  per- 
son calls  for  it,  except  Maurice  J.  Herford!" 

They  were  now  within  sight  of  the  fruit  plan- 
tation, and  brilliant  in  the  landscape  showed  the 
red  flannel  shirt  of  Pat  McCrae,  as  vivid  as 
Garibaldi's. 

"  Yonder's  the  signal,"  said  Michael;  "  'tis 
here  the  thrain  stops." 

He  settled  himself  on  a  funny  little  bench  a 
foot  high  and  a  foot  and  a  half  long,  mounted  on 
thick  wooden  runners  like  an  old-fashioned 
home-made  sled.  He  pointed  to  a  companion 
one  for  Roberta. 

"Now  thin,  ye've  larnt  how  to  tie  after  a 
graft  from  Trommel?  " 

"Yes,"  she  replied. 

"Thin  take  this  raffia  and  tie  after  me.  Not 
too  tight  or  ye'll  strangle,  but  tight  enough; 
and  watch  how  I  bud!  Tie  every  other  wan, 
thin  ye  can  keep  up  wid  me  an'  leave  enough  f 'r 
Pat  McCrae." 

Michael's  fingers  worked  rapidly  and  deftly, 
but  his  mind  went  back  in  reminiscence. 


98    ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

"A  year  ago  to-day  I  was  buddin'  also,  not 
here  but  over  yonder.  And  who  sh'u'd  I  see 
standin'  beside  me  but  Mr.  Maurice  Herford. 

'"  Michael/  says  he  to  me,  'will  ye  come 
abroad  wid  me,  to  thravel  and  see  the  gardens 
in  England  and  France?'  says  he. 

"'How  can  I?'  says  I.  'Look  at  my  buddin' 
just  begun.' 

"  •  Whin  will  ye  be  t 'rough? '  says  he. 

"  'The  ninth  day  of  September,'  says  I. 

"And  the  ninth  day  of  September,  in  the 
morning,  comes  Maurice  J.  Herford.  I  was 
halfway  down  the  last  row. 

"'Ar-re  ye  through  buddin',  Michael?'  says 
he.     '  'Tis  the  ninth  day  of  September.' 

"'I'll  be  whin  I  finish  this  row,'  says  I. 

"He  stands  there  an'  says  nothin'  till  the 
last  tree  is  done. 

"Thin  he  says,  '  'Tis  the  ninth  day  of  Sep- 
tember and  'tis  Chuseday.  The  Fiirst  Bis- 
march  sails  on  Thursday.     Now  will  ye  go?"1 

"And  you  didn't  go,  Michael?" 

"I  cud'n't.  What  w'u'd  the  place  do  widout 
me?  Besides,  what  w'u'd  I  do  away  from  it? 
I'd  be  like  a  duck  on  a  mountain-top." 


CHAPTER  NINE  99 

"Let  me  do  some  now,"  said  Roberta,  who 
had  been  watching. 

"Very  well,  and  I'll  tie  f'r  you.  Mind  ye 
don't  cut  too  deep;  just  t'rough  the  bark  an' 
careful  wid  the  eyes.  A  clean,  smooth  cut; 
slip  it  under  the  bark  wid  just  the  eye  stickin' 
out  and  'twill  niver  know  what's  happened  to 
it!" 

Roberta  did  the  operation  fairly  deftly  for  a 
beginner  and  presently  she  and  Michael  were 
hitching  down  the  row,  sideways,  crab-fashion, 
Roberta  ahead,  Michael  next,  superintending 
and  tying,  moving  along  on  funny  little  benches. 

Soon  they  came  alongside  Pat  McCrae,  who 
was  tying,  in  the  next  row,  the  young  trees 
Michael  had  already  budded. 

McCrae  was  short  and  broad  shouldered, 
with  a  grizzled  beard,  and  clad  in  baggy  trousers 
and  bright  red  undershirt. 

"'Tis  war-rm,"  he  remarked. 

"It  is,"  said  Michael;  "'tis  always  war-rm 
buddin',  an'  we've  been  doin'  it  in  August  f'r 
thirty  years.  But  it's  been  war-rmer  than  to- 
day!" 

"It     has,"     assented     McCrae.     Then     he 


100  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

coughed.  "'Twas  war-rmer  at  the  battle  of 
Gettysburg!     Begor!  but  that  was  hot  work." 

"Were  you  there,  McCrae?"  asked  Roberta, 
interested. 

"  Oi  was,"  said  McCrae  firmly.  "  Oi  was  wan 
ov  thim  that  resisted  Pickett's  charge.  The 
bullets  wint  whistling  by  like  it  was  hailstones 
and  niver  an  umbrelly.  There  was  wan  wint 
t'rough  me  sleeve  and  grazed  me  ar-rm,  and 
another  t'rough  the  tail  av  me  coat  an'  buried 
itsilf  in  a  comrade's  breast,  who  fell  at  me  side, 
but  we  pressed  in!" 

"McCrae,"  said  Michael  reproachfully,  "'tis 
sorry  Oi  am  to  hear  ye  say  that.  Where  were 
ye  a-goin'  whin  the  innemy  had  a  chanst  at  the 
fly  in'  tails  av  yer  coat?" 

"I'm  tellin'  yez  there  was  a  high  wind.  I 
just  tur-rned  a  minute  sideways  to  load  me 
musket  whin — whist,  wint  the  bullet,  t'rough 
me  coat  an'  buried  itsilf  in  one  comrade's  chist 
an'  he  fell  at  me  side,  mortally  wounded!  Thin, 
wid  the  bullets  rainin'  round  me,  Oi  carried  him 
to  safety!" 

"Wasn't  it  whin  ye  were  sprintin'  f'r  safety 
that  the  bullet  hit?" 


CHAPTER  Nfflfe:  :  101 

"Twas  not!"  replied PatricV Iritb*  dignity 

"But  I  thought,"  pursued  Michael,  "that 
'twas  the  navy  ye  ware  in,  wid  Farragut  an'  the 
sailor  b'ys." 

"  Oi  was,"  said  McCrae.  "  Oi  enlisted  first  in 
the  navy.  Oi  was  wid  Farragut  at  Mobile. 
Oi  was  up  in  the  foremast  in  char-rge  av  a  gun 
mesilf,  an'  ould  Farragut  says  to  me,  says  he, 
'Pat,  me  b'y,  y'r  as  gallant  a  b'y  as  there  is  in 
the  navy!'  says  he.  'There's  me  hand!'  says 
he." 

"But  I  thought  ye  was  at  Gettysburg,"  said 
Michael;  "an'  if  I  remember  right,  Mobile  was 
on  a  Chuseday  an'  Gettysburg  began  on  a 
Wed-ens-d'y." 

McCrae  nodded. 

"'Tis  so,"  he  said,  "they  rushed  us  up  t'  help 
in  th'  fight.  We  wasn't  in  at  the  fir-rst  day, 
but  we  were  there  f'r  the  second,  and  well  was  it 
f'r  the  Union  we  reached  there  in  the  nick  av 
time!" 

"Go  long  wid  yez,"  said  Michael. 

Just  then  the  gong  sounded.  "'Tis  well," 
said  O'Connor;  "'tis  like  the  cock  crowin'  f'r 
Saint  Peter.     'Tis  time  ye  stopped,  McCrae!" 


102  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

"1  liopt  he  gofcs  to  confession,  the  ould  sin- 
ner," said  Michael,  as  he  and  Roberta  were 
walking  back  to  the  shop.  Then  he  chuckled. 
"There's  niver  a  battle  in  the  war  that  Pat 
McCrae  wasn't  there!  But  I  believe  his  story 
about  th'  bullet  in  the  tail  av  his  coat. 

"'Tis  proselytes  we've  been  making,  Miss 
Davenant,  the  morning.  Turning  common 
little  heathen  av  seedling  apples  into  children 
av  grace.  They'll  niver  be  common  apple 
trees  again;  they're  Pyrus  Malus  Parkmanni, 
an'  'tis  you  an'  me  have  converted  and  baptised 
them!" 


CHAPTER  TEN 

AS  USUAL  on  August  mornings  Major 
/%  Pomerane  sat  on  his  veranda,  a  broad, 
«Z  JL  comfortable  veranda  which  overlooked 
his  drive  and  his  garden.  The  Major  was  broad 
and  comfortable  also — very  comfortable  he 
looked  as  he  sipped  his  coffee,  eyeglasses  on  his 
nose,  the  morning  paper  in  his  hand,  pipe  beside 
him  on  the  table  for  future  attention,  and  at  his 
feet  a  shaggy  English  sheep  dog.  At  a  little 
distance  lay  a  setter,  his  nose  along  a  patch  of 
the  morning  sunshine.  The  setter  was  dozing, 
occasionally  opening  one  eye  to  see  if  his  master 
had  finished  breakfast,  then  closing  it  again  and 
resuming  his  dreams.  Suddenly  he  lifted  his 
head,  opened  both  eyes,  cocked  an  ear,  and 
uttered  a  short,  sharp  bark.  The  Major  laid 
down  his  paper,  lifted  his  eyeglasses  from  his 
nose,  and  looked  down  the  drive. 

Paul  Fielding  was  coming  in  at  the  gate, 

mounted  on  his  big  chestnut  and  riding  slowly. 

He  rode  up  the  drive,  dismounted,  fastened 

103 


104  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

his  horse  to  the  hitching  post,  and  came  up  on 
the  veranda. 

"Morning,"  said  the  Major.  "Just  in  time, 
Paul.  Have  some  breakfast.  Sam,  bring  an- 
other cup  for  Mr.  Fielding,  and  hot  rolls!" 

"No,  thank  you,  Cousin  Jim,  I  don't  want 
breakfast." 

"What!  At  your  age!"  He  looked  keenly 
at  his  visitor.  "Good  Lord,  Paul,  you  look  as 
cheerful  as  a  wet  hen.     What's  the  trouble?" 

"Nothing,"  responded  Paul  gloomily. 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  Major  briskly,  "look  at 
the  pretty  sunshine !  Listen  to  the  little  birds ! 
Ain't  dis  a  mighty  pretty  mornin9"  chanted  his 
host. 

"No,  it 'ain't!'"  said  Paul. 

"Never  mind!  No  troubles  in  the  world  that 
good  coffee  and  good  tobacco  and  a  good  dog 
can't  give  a  handsomer  aspect!  Better  change 
your  mind,  son!"  he  said,  as  the  darkey  set  the 
extra  place  at  the  table. 

Paul  shook  his  head  and  in  silence  flicked  the 
dust  from  his  boots  with  his  riding  whip. 
"Damn  Roseberry  Gardens!"  he  remarked  at 
last. 


CHAPTER  TEN  105 

Major  Pomerane  chuckled.  "Tut,  tut!  Most 
interesting  place,  wonderful  collection!  Only 
commercial  nursery  in  the  country  that  ranks 
with  an  arboretum.  Finest  place  in  the  world 
for  a  young  man  to " 

"Shucks!"  said  Paul. 

"Um-m-m!"  said  the  Major  meditatively. 
"So  I  gather  that  our  young  friend  Roberta 
has  gone  out  to  work  in  the  gardens  with  the  old 
fossils,  like  a  properly  conducted,  businesslike 
person.  She  wouldn't  go  riding  with  you? 
Shocking  taste!  What  are  the  young  women 
of  to-day  coming  to?  Too  bad!"  finished  the 
Major  sympathetically.  The  setter  got  up  and 
went  over  to  Paul. 

"Here,  Michael,"  called  Major  Pomerane, 
"that  young  man  isn't  safe  company  for  a  nice 
doggie;  he  may  bite." 

"Michael!"  echoed  Fielding.  "I  thought 
this  was  old  Zip  Coon." 

"Used  to  be  Zip  Coon  and  Tramp" — he 
indicated  the  sheep  dog — "but  I  changed  their 
names.  I  call  them  Michael  and  Maurice 
Herford — they  work  so  well  together." 

"Damn  Maurice  Herford!"  said  Paul. 


106  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

"Tut,  tut!  Don't  be  so  belligerent.  Fine 
man  Herford!  Finest  collection  of  evergreens 
in  the  state;  something  of  a  scholar,  too. 
Knows  coins." 

He  looked  at  Fielding's  face.  "Too  bad, 
son!"  Then  he  added  soberly:  "Do  you  really 
care  so  much,  Paul?" 

"More  than  for  anything  else  in  the  world, 
Cousin  Jim!  Good  Lord!  Why  do  you  sup- 
pose I'm  killing  time  here  when  I'm  crazy  to  be 
down  at  Paradise  Park,  at  the  work  I  want  to 
do?" 

"Thought  you  wanted  to  do  landscape  gar- 
dening." 

"That  was  Dad's  idea.  What  I  want  to  do  is 
to  get  the  old  place  back  on  a  paying  basis  so 
we  shan't  have  to  sell  off  any — that's  what  I've 
got  to  do.  I  want  to  try  the  rice  growing  again. 
It  was  profitable  years  ago,  it  ought  to  be  profit- 
able now." 

"Did  you  ever  tell  Roberta  that?" 

Fielding  shook  his  head.  "It's  not  the  com- 
mercial side  that  interests  her." 

"Wrong  tack,  my  boy!  She'd  respect  you  a 
heap  more  if  you  had  something  to  do  besides 


CHAPTER  TEN  107 

dangling.  You  young  ones  make  lots  of  fool 
mistakes.  When  you  want  something  you  just 
sit  down  beside  it  or  stand  in  front  of  it  like  a 
three-year-old  and  holler  for  it.  That's  where 
the  old  fossils  have  you  beaten  to  a  finish — 
they're  so  mighty  cool  headed!" 

"What  do  you  know  about  it?"  Paul  asked 
suspiciously. 

"Lots.  Tell  you  what,  son,  a  man  who 
spends  years  in  the  observatory  knows  a  heap 
more  about  earthquakes  than  the  folk  who  are 
actually  in  them.  When  a  man  is  engulfed  in 
the  hot  ashes  and  lava  of  passion  and  sentiment," 
said  the  Major  grandiloquently,  "it  is  not  easy 
for  him  to  observe  the  proper  direction  his  en- 
ergies should  take.  I'll  tell  you  one  thing,  son, 
those  old  fossils  aren't  rivals  to  be  despised. 
'Twouldn't  hurt  you  to  observe  their  methods. 
I  never  wanted  to  marry,  but  I  know  exactly 
how  to  go  about  it  if  I  did.  I'd  have  married 
Roberta's  mother  in  a  minute." 

"Why  didn't  you?" 

"Never  saw  her  until  Bob  Davenant  brought 
her  here — and  he  was  an  old  fossil.  Sort  of 
semi-animate  Blackstone — all  law  books  and 


108  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

cases.  I  dare  say  there  were  plenty  of  good- 
looking  young  fellows  down  there  who'd  have 
taken  Davenant's  place.  Lord!  but  she  was 
sweet;  loved  gardens,  too,  but  not  like  Roberta — 
no  notebook  or  that  sort  of  thing — more  like  a 
hummingbird.  You'd  see  her  every  morning 
out  there.  I  used  to  send  her  over  roses  at 
breakfast  time,  till  Bob  Davenant  woke  up  and 
planted  lots  in  their  own  garden.  She  galvan- 
ized him  into  more  life  those  two  years  than 
all  the  Davenants  had  had  for  fifty.  Got  him 
quite  human.  Roberta's  got  her  mother's  col- 
ouring, but  you  can't  judge  always  by  that. 
There's  a  streak  of  Davenant  in  her  you  have  to 
reckon  with — poor  child!  I  don't  suppose  she 
can  help  it." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Cousin  Jim?" 

"Conscience.  Old  Adelaide's  got  enough  to 
stock  an  institution  Dare  say  Roberta  would 
have  honestly  liked  to  have  gone  riding  this 
morning  instead  of — what  did  you  say  she's 
doing?" 

"Taking  account  of  stock.  Do  you  really 
think  so?"  Paul  was  brightening. 

"Very  likely,"  responded  the  Major  serenely, 


CHAPTER  TEN  109 

"and  Herford  is  clever  enough  to  know  it.  Bet 
you  a  new  riding  whip — and  you'll  need  one  if 
you  keep  on  spoiling  that — that  he  keeps  on  a 
straight  business  basis.  Bet  he  doesn't  say, 
'Come,  my  dear  young  lady,  and  walk  in  the 
gardens  with  me  this  afternoon.'  Not  he !  More 
likely  it's:  "Could  you  show  me  those  ever- 
greens? I  could  find  them  myself,  but  I've  for- 
gotten where  the  Picea  section  is.'  Roberta 
sees  it  as  a  duty  and  Herford  has  a  pleasant  walk. 
You're  all  South  Carolina  and  I'm  part,  and  it 
takes  us  time  to  learn  the  ways  of  these  New 
Englanders.  They  instinctively  refuse  a  pleas- 
ure, but  hitch  it  up  with  a  duty  and  it  goes  every 
time.  Has  to  be  hitched  tandem,  too;  Duty  for 
the  leader.  Wheelhorse  may  be  the  whole  thing 
—never  mind — fix  it  as  if  the  Duty  was  ahead, 
and  you're  all  right.  I  know  what  I'd  do  if  I 
were  you!" 

"What?" 

"I'd  play  Paradise  Park  for  all  it's  worth! 
It's  a  gorgeous  old  place;  she'd  feel  the  charm  of 
it  in  a  minute.  I'd  get  her  down  there,  take  her 
coon-hunting,  riding.  She'd  forget  about  the 
fossils  and  the  gardens  and  you  could  omit 


110  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

Herford — his  handsome,  price-tagged  place  isn't 
a  patch  on  that!     It'd  be  your  innings." 

"She  wouldn't  come,"  said  Paul. 

"  Lord ! "  exclaimed  the  Major  testily.  "  The 
lack  of  intelligence  in  this  generation!  No 
wonder  your  father  asked  me  to  look  out  for 
you!  Make  it  a  duty,  man!  Horticultural, 
social,  filial!  Talk  to  old  Worthington.  Tell 
him  you  want  Miss  Davenant's  opinion  on  the 
camellias.  Tell  him  how  useful  it  might  be  for 
Roberta  to  get  in  touch  with  the  older  horticul- 
ture. Make  friends  with  Aunt  Adelaide;  make 
love  to  her.  She's  actually  got  a  restless  fit,  and 
when  we  old  people  get  that,  we're  ripe  for  any 
suggestion.  Invite  her  down  for  Christmas,  not 
Roberta;  tell  her  about  the  old-time  elegance  of 
the  gardens  at  Paradise  Park.  She'll  go — and 
Roberta  will  go  with  her  as  accessory.  She'll 
ask  Worthington  to  lether  off,  and  Worthington'll 
see  the  horticultural  chance  and  consent.  Just 
you  try  it!    Fine  scheme.     No  charge!" 

"It's  a  good  idea,"  said  Paul  reflectively. 

"Of  course  it's  good!"  said  Major  Pomerane 
complacently.     "Ever  go  fishing,  Paul?" 

"Of  course  I  have!" 


CHAPTER  TEN  111 

"Real  fishing,  trout  fishing — kind  that  takes 
intelligence?" 

Paul  Fielding  nodded. 

"Wouldn't  have  thought  it!"  said  the  Major, 
"but  if  ever  you  caught  a  real  beauty  you  cast 
with  a  fly  that  you  thought  would  interest.  If 
it  didn't,  you  tried  another,  and  you  kept  your- 
self in  the  shadow.  Strikes  me  you've  been 
standing  long  enough  in  the  broad  sunshine  slap- 
ping the  water  with  a  hook  and  worm.  You've 
tested  the  'My  face  is  my  fortune'  role.  Why 
not  try  something  else?" 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

WHETHER  or  not  it  was  due  to  his 
cousin's  advice,  next  morning  saw 
Paul  Fielding  out  early  at  Roseberry 
Gardens.  Miss  Davenant  was  not  in  the  office. 
The  young  man  considered  a  moment,  then  he 
took  the  narrow  shaded  road  that  led  to  the  new 
plantation .  It  was  cool  and  damp  in  the  morning 
freshness.  The  sun  had  only  flecked  it  as  yet  and 
the  dew  lingered  heavily.  On  one  side  honey- 
suckle that  had  escaped  from  the  garden  climbed 
and  hung  in  tangled  masses  on  lithe  young  oaks, 
veiling  the  woods;  on  the  other  side,  across  a 
hedge,  were  the  well-kept  nursery  rows  of  vibur- 
nums and  sturdy,  thick-set,  fruiting  honey- 
suckles; here  and  there  a  long  trailing  spray  of 
eleagnus  drooping  with  the  weight  of  heavy 
scarlet  berries. 

It  was  still  at  Roseberry  Garden,  so  still  you 
could  hear  the  three  long  notes  of  a  meadowlark 
down  the  hill  at  the  foot  of  the  plantation. 

112 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN  113 

A  startled  brown  rabbit  that  had  been  sitting 
in  the  road,  alert  and  watchful,  whisked  into 
the  hedge. 

"You  needn't  have  been  in  such  a  hurry,  Br'er 
Rabbit,"  said  Paul  to  the  vanishing  cotton-tail. 
"Why  couldn't  you  stay  and  wish  me  luck?  " 

Suddenly  Fielding  stopped;  he  heard  voices. 

1  'Ho w  many  did  you  say,  McCrae  ?  Five  hun- 
dred? And  the  group  down  below?  Fifty?  Five 
hundred  and  fifty,"  said  a  girl's  voice  slowly,  as  if 
its  owner  were  writing  down. 

Fielding  went  quickly  to  the  opening  in  the 
hedge  that  marked  the  quarter-acre,  saw  Ro- 
berta, notebook  in  hand,  soft  felt  hat  pushed 
back,  head  bent  over  the  notes  she  was  making. 
McCrae,  in  his  Garibaldi  shirt,  had  just  limped 
off  down  another  row. 

There  was  a  sudden,  quick  flush  of  greeting. 

"Would  you  like  a  job?"  she  said.  "I  want 
to  send  McCrae  back  to  Michael." 

"Surely,"  Paul  answered  eagerly. 

"I  think  we  can  get  to  the  Prunus  section  be- 
fore I  have  to  go  back;  poor  old  Patrick  is  as 
slow  as  a  barge.  There  are  two  hundred  in 
each  row,  Mr.  Fielding.     Just  see  how  many 


114  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

Spinossissima  there  are  in  that  broken  row — ■ 
about  a  hundred  and  fifty,  I  should  think, 
shouldn't  you?  And  will  you  take  this  stick," 
handing  him  a  walking-stick  notched  at  foot 
and  half-foot  intervals,  "and  get  the  average 
height?" 

Paul  did  her  bidding  with  alacrity,  and  the 
two  worked  rapidly  and  in  silence.  Paul  was 
very  happy  and  hummed  to  himself  the 
Major's  negro  tune,  which  the  day  before  had 
been  a  vexation. 

"AinH  dis  a  mighty  pretty  mornin',  Good  Lord, 
Good  Lord?" 

"We  must  go  back,"  said  Miss  Davenant 
suddenly,  looking  at  her  watch.  "The  mail 
will  be  in.     Thank  you  very  much ! " 

"It  was  a  pleasure,"  said  Paul  truthfully. 

"I'd  shift  with  the  men  any  time  and  take  the 
field  work  instead  of  the  office. 

"Aren't  they  splendid  little  plants?"  said 
Roberta. 

"Miss  Davenant,"  said  Paul,  "there's  only 
one  plant  in  Roseberry  Gardens  that  really 
interests  me  and  that  I  seem  unable  to  get." 

Roberta  flushed.     "It's  a  young  evergreen, 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN  115 

Mr.  Fielding,  very  prickly,  and  objects  to  trans- 
plantation as  seriously  as  an  Ilex  opaca." 

"Ass!"  said  Paul  to  himself,  "why  couldn't 
you  leave  well  enough  alone?" 

But  Roberta  was  unconcerned.  "  Would  you 
like  to  see  something?"  she  said.  "But  mind 
you  don't  tell." 

She  led  the  way  through  a  gap  in  the  hedge, 
pushed  aside  the  lowest  branch  of  a  thick, 
prickly  barberry  and  showed  a  little  hollow. 
"Aren't  they  darling?" 

Paul  peered  in  to  see  six  tiny  baby  rabbits. 
"Little  cottontails!"  he  exclaimed  delightedly. 

"Better  not  pick  one  up,"  cautioned  Roberta, 
"he  might  tell  his  mother  and  she'd  move  the 
whole  family." 

She  let  the  branches  slip  back  carefully,  and 
then  led  the  way  to  the  road  with  her  quick, 
silent  woodman's  step,  Paul  Fielding  follow- 
ing. 

"Anyway,"  Paul  meditated  happily,  "I  bet 
she  wouldn't  have  shown  the  little  bunnies  to 
oldHerford!" 

At  the  office  door  she  stopped.  "I  have  work 
to  do,"  she  said,  "lots  of  it,  I'm  sorry!" 


116  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

"That  means  'run  along  home?' "  questioned 
Paul. 

"Not  in  so  many  words,  but  I  have  to  collab- 
orate with  Michael  now,  so  you've  given  me  all 
the  time  I  ought  to  take.  You've  probably 
something  to  do  yourself." 

"But  to-morrow?  "  asked  young  Mr.  Fielding, 
"  the  Prunus  you  know."  He  spoke  as  if  pas- 
sionately interested  in  Prunus. 

"Why  not  take  me  for  assistant?"  he  con- 
tinued. "I  know  I  can  get  about  on  my  feet  a 
bit  more  briskly  than  your  friend  Pat  McCrae;  I 
am  sure  I  can  read  a  label  quicker.  Try  me, 
and  see  if  the  work  doesn't  go  faster.  You  told 
me  the  other  morning  what  ought  to  be  done 
before  Mr.  Worthington's  return. 

"You  see  I  want  to  know  the  plants,"  he  said, 
"and  helping  with  the  stock-taking  is  a  very 
simple  way  of  learning.  Of  course  it's  a  'chore' 
for  you,  but  aren't  you  glad  to  help  any 
one — 'Lo  the  poor  Indian!' — that  sort  of 
thing?" 

Roberta  laughed.  "Very  well,  then,  to-mor- 
row." 

So  it  came  about  that  almost  any  noontide 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN  117 

in  late  August  would  have  found  Miss  Davenant 
seated  on  a  hummock  of  grass  at  the  end  of  one 
plantation,  like  Miss  Muffett  upon  her  tuffett, 
only  instead  of  curds  and  whey  she  was  munch- 
ing a  sandwich,  and  beside  her,  likewise  em- 
ployed, was  young  Mr.  Fielding  of  South 
Carolina.  Thus  they  would  sit  for  some  time 
after  the  luncheon,  Paul  with  his  long  arms 
clasped  about  his  knees. 

He  had  followed  his  cousin's  advice  scrupu- 
lously and  assiduously.  It  worked  beautifully. 
He  kept  strictly  to  business,  and  this  devotion 
to  the  hard  facts  of  life  had  brought  him  spa- 
cious, undisturbed  mornings  with  the  coppery- 
haired  secretary,  with  only  the  bobolinks  and 
old  Patrick  McCrae  for  occasional  intruders; 
also  these  pleasing  noontide  hours  when 
McCrae,  dinner-pail  in  hand,  would  disappear 
between  the  rows  of  young  trees;  and  the  two 
would  sit  under  the  big  linden  for  their  work- 
ingman's  midday  rest. 

In  this  cheerful  fashion,  varied  by  such  ex- 
cursions, the  stock-taking  continued.  Duty  was 
substituted  for  Pleasure  in  the  early  mornings, 
and  as  the  wise  old  Major  predicted,  Fielding 


118  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

found  it  quite  possible  to  link  Pleasure  with  it 
much  of  the  time. 

The  days  were  sultry.  Major  Pomerane, 
even  on  his  shaded  piazza,  thought  it  uncom- 
fortable, but  young  Mr.  Fielding  was  well 
content. 

It  was  cooler  by  the  big  linden  that  stood  at 
the  intersection  of  grass  paths  dividing  the 
plantations  into  half  acres.  From  beneath  it 
one  could  look  down  the  long  slope  of  the 
plantations  and  across  the  wide  marshes  through 
which  the  Meadowport  creek  trailed  a  lazy, 
uncertain  serpentine,  as  if  it  had  not  the  faintest 
idea  where  it  was  going,  and  did  not  care  in  the 
least.  The  marshes  were  beginning  to  colour 
and  flush  with  the  coming  autumn;  at  long 
intervals  came  the  note  of  a  solitary  meadow- 
lark  like  a  sentinel's  "all's  well." 

The  two  beneath  the  tree  munched  their 
sandwiches  in  silence  and  content.  Roberta 
pulled  off  the  old  soft  hat,  pushed  back  her  hair, 
and  settled  herself  comfortably  against  the  big 
linden.  She  scanned  the  young  plantation 
that  lay  beyond  them  approvingly,  noting  the 
trench  watering  that  had  evidently  been  done 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN  119 

the  day  before,  and  how  little  the  drought  had 
affected  the  newly  transplanted  stock.  At 
last  she  turned  to  her  companion. 

"There's  not  been  one  of  those  little  hedge 
plants  injured,"  she  said.  "The  trench  water- 
ing has  kept  them  safe,  and  Uncle  Rudolph 
moved  them  when  I  thought  there  was  nothing 
for  them  but  murder  and  sudden  death." 

But  Fielding  was  looking  beyond  the  planta- 
tion to  the  marshes  and,  in  truth,  beyond  these 
marshes  to  those  of  Carolina,  beside  the  Cooper, 
through  which  the  river  wound  its  indolent 
way. 

"Trench  watering,"  he  echoed  blankly, 
"what's  that,  Miss  Davenant?" 

"Didn't  you  see  it  done?  The  men  plough 
a  furrow,  then  fill  it  with  water  by  letting  the 
hose  run  until  it  has  been  filled  several  times. 
Next  morning  they  run  the  cultivator  over  and 
cover  up  to  prevent  evaporation.  Trench 
watering  is  a  regular  drought  insurance." 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said  absently,  "very  inter- 
esting, very  clever  of  you  to  know  it,  but  you 
needn't  rub  it  into  me  so!  It's  not  polite  to 
show  off  I" 


120  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

Roberta  laughed.  "You  don't  really  care 
about  gardening,  Mr.  Fielding." 

"I  care  about  you,"  was  on  the  tip  of  the 
young  man's  tongue,  but  he  looked  at  the  un- 
conscious profile  of  the  girl  beside  him,  thought 
of  his  cousin,  the  Major,  and  the  wisdom  of  the 
ancients,  and  clasped  his  long  brown  hands 
closely  about  his  knees. 

"I'm  not  passionately  interested  in  garden- 
ing," he  admitted,  "except  in  what  I  can  take 
back  with  me  and  use  down  at  Paradise  Park. 
That's  the  truth.  These  rows  and  rows  of 
little  things  that  fascinate  you  and  old  Trommel 
so  much  seem  to  me  too  painfully  new  to  be 
interesting.  I  honestly  see  very  little  beauty  in 
nice  little  plants  in  rows.  You  ought  to  see  the 
azaleas  we  have  at  home.  Higher  than  your 
head  and  you  can  cut  armfuls." 

Roberta  laughed.  "Mr.  Worthington  would 
say  you  had  no  ' vision,'"  she  said. 

"And  I  suppose  he  and  Herford  and  old 
Trommel  have?"  said  Paul  discontentedly. 

"They  see  heaps  of  possibilities,  whole  worlds 
that  some  of  them  are  expected  to  conquer!  I 
don't  see  them  quite  like  that,  but  I  love  to 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN  121 

think  up  places  for  them.  I'd  like  to  see  those 
flowering  apples — over  in  the  next  section — the 
ones  Michael  and  I  budded — used  on  a  terrace, 
clipped  into  the  form  of  standard  roses — I  think 
it  would  be  good.  Those  others  I  would  have 
planted  beside  a  stone  wall  with  the  poet's  nar- 
cissus for  company." 

"Those  little  plants  are  just  babies;  they 
haven't  yet  gone  out  to  make  their  way  in  the 
world.  It  isn't  fair  to  expect  so  much  of  them. 
But  these  are  very  important  years,  I  assure 
you;  here  they  get  their  character,  their  impress. 
You  see  we  have  to  care  for  them  very  much,  for 
we  never  know  what  treatment  they  get  when 
they  leave.  It's  appalling  the  roughness  with 
which  some  people  stick  plants  into  the  ground 
or  leave  them  about  unplanted.  Michael  had 
to  go  last  week  to  see  what  was  wrong  with  a  tree 
that  the  man  who  bought  it  said  he  couldn't 
make  grow,  and  what  do  you  think  he  found?  " 
She  laughed. 

"Can't  guess,"  said  Fielding. 

"He  found  the  man  sitting  beside  the  tree, 
in  his  backyard,  the  soil  scooped  away  from 
half  the  roots  so  that  he  could  watch  it  better. 


122  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

I  believe  he  spent  hours  every  day  in  that 
manner." 

Paul  Fielding  laughed.  When  one  is  five  and 
twenty  and  the  world  going  pleasantly,  one 
laughs  easily. 

"Were  you  ever  South?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"No,"  she  answered,  "never.  But  my  father 
used  to  tell  me  about  it.  He  thought  it  wonder- 
ful, but  he  never  took  me  there.  I  know  about 
your  big  camellias  at  Paradise  Park  that  Mr. 
Worthington  says  would  fill  the  office,  each  one." 

"There  are  only  four  as  large  as  that,"  said 
Fielding,  "and  those  stand,  one  at  each  corner 
where  the  rose  garden  used  to  be.  They  were 
brought  from  Japan  in  1750,  but  there  are 
oceans  of  little  ones;  they  grow  up  thick  in  the 
grass  just  under  the  big  camellias.  There's  an 
avenue  of  liveoaks  as  old  or  older  than  the 
camellias,  great  old  giants  whose  tops  meet 
overhead;  the  avenue  must  be  a  hundred  feet 
wide,  and  I  know  it's  a  quarter  of  a  mile  long. 
That's  one  approach.  The  other  is  from  the 
river  that  winds  in  and  out  between  the  mar- 
shes, like  that  little  creek  winds  below,  only  it's 
much  larger — it's  a  river.    The  oaks  are  not 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN  123 

slim  little  things  such  as  you  have  in  your  woods, 
but  big  enough  to  make  a  dozen  lindens  like 
this  one  we're  under.  You  could  build  a  coun- 
try house  in  the  branches;  they  come  down  to 
the  edge  of  the  marshes  and  fringe  the  river. 
There's  a  spidery-looking  wharf  that  stretches 
out  into  the  water — a  sort  of  centipede  affair 
with  the  piles  for  legs.  That's  where  we  land 
when  we  come  up  by  boat.  The  house  isn't  far 
from  the  river  and  you  catch  the  scent  of  the 
honeysuckles  almost  as  soon  as  you  land.  There 
are  big  live  oaks  about  the  house  and  at  night 
they  cast  queer  strange  shadows.  We  have 
wonderful  moonlight  down  there.  The  old 
house  is  quiet  and  brooding;  it  has  been  through 
a  good  deal  and  feels  like  it  wasn't  sure  that 
happiness  had  come  to  it  yet.  I  know  what 
would  bring  it!  It's  a  wonderful  thing  to  bring 
happiness  to  a  place.  Cousin  Jim  says  that's 
what  your  mother  did  for  the  Davenant  house; 
he  says  it's  been  a  different  place  ever  since." 

"Tell  me  more  about  your  Paradise  Park," 
said  Roberta. 

"There's  little  to  tell,"  said  Fielding.  "It's 
run  down,  going  to  pieces,  but  I  love  every  inch 


124  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

of  the  blessed  old  place.  It's  like  seeing  some 
one  you  care  for  in  misfortune.  I  want,  more 
than  I  want  anything  else,  except  one  thing,  to 
see  prosperity  come  back  to  it.  Along  the 
marshes,  up  and  down  beside  the  river,  are  what 
used  to  be  rice-fields.  Rice  has  been  grown 
successfully  there;  there's  no  reason  why  it 
shouldn't  be  again.  I  wanted  to  try  it,  but  my 
father  was  so  anxious  that  I  shouldn't  settle 
down  there  at  Paradise  Park  without  a  trial  of 
something  else  that  I  came  North  to  have  a  try 
on  landscape  gardening.  But  I  reckon  there 
isn't  anything  better  if  you  looked  from  the  Gulf 
to  Canada.  There's  an  old  race  track  where 
my  grandfather  used  to  train  his  horses — we 
have  some  right  good  horses  there  yet.  You 
ought  to  see  a  colt  I  have!  I  believe  there's 
phosphate  in  the  land — there's  some  at  Ashley 
Place  just  above.  But  we'd  have  to  sell  some 
land  to  work  that  and  lose  some  of  the  big  live- 
oaks.  I'd  rather  rebuild  the  broken  dykes  and 
go  to  rice  growing.  I  want  more  than  I  want 
anything,  as  I  told  you,  to  see  prosperity  and 
happiness  come  back  to  the  old  place.  But  how? 
That's  the  question." 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN  125 

"I  don't  know.  There  must  be  dozens  of 
ways.  That's  for  you  to  find  out.  Life's  like  a 
Fairy  Story.  You  find  the  right  word  and  you 
unlock  the  door.  You  might  dig  up  those 
oceans  of  little  camellias  and  pot  them  and  sell 
them  to  Uncle  Rudolph  for  stocks.  Maybe 
they're  the  Sesame." 

"I  suppose  I  might  do  that,"  said  Fielding 
slowly.     "I  never  thought  of  it  that  way." 

"Surely  you  could.  And  you  could  cut 
azalea  branches  and  send  great  hampers  of  them 
to  town  for  sale.  If  you  cut  where  you  ought 
to  prune,  the  plants  won't  be  hurt.  And  you 
could  raise  thousands  of  boxcuttings — while 
you're  mending  the  dykes  and  waiting  for  the 
rice  plantations." 

"How  did  you  think  of  that?"  said  Paul 
Fielding. 

"Commercial  mind,"  answered  Roberta. 
"Besides,  that's  what  I  want  to  do  when  I  know 
enough — grow  plants — lots  and  lots  of  them, 
rare  ones,  lovely  ones — have  greenhouses  and 
greenhouses,  and  send  the  plants  all  over  the 
country.     Just  you  wait  and  see!" 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

IN  SEPTEMBER  Mr.  Horace  Worthington 
returned.  The  old  gentleman  had  been 
summering  in  the  mountains,  watching 
the  coming  and  going  of  the  summer  folk, 
interested  in  a  detached  way  as  if  the  life  were  a 
play  and  his  shady  piazza-corner  a  box  at  the 
theatre.  For  the  rest,  the  folk  with  whom  he 
really  kept  company  were  Doctor  Johnson  and 
Boswell,  Plato  and  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  and  he 
looked  at  the  trees  with  the  eye  of  a  connoisseur, 
dreaming  about  his  new  hedge-plant  and  a 
method  of  growing  magnolias  which  should 
make  transplanting  as  safe  as  if  the  little  trees 
were  in  pots. 

On  his  first  morning  at  the  gardens,  just  as  a 
devoted  mother  after  a  brief  absence  must  first 
see  her  babies,  Mr.  Horace  Worthington 
went  to  the  "little  houses"  where  were  the 
baby  seedlings  in  benches — azaleas  only  two  or 
three  inches  tall,  tiny  evergreens,  taxus,   and 

126 


CHAPTER  TWELVE  127 

Abies,  and  Picea,  all  carefully  ranged  like 
small  soldiers,  though  it  might  be  eighteen  or 
twenty  years  before  they  would  be  doing  their 
work. 

Whoever  grows  trees  lives  in  the  future,  builds 
for  the  future,  and  must  put  aside  haste  and  im- 
patience as  foolishness.  That  is  why  so  many 
statesmen  have  been  notable  tree  planters;  they 
are  able  to  look  ahead  and  to  build  for  the 
future. 

"That  little  thing!"  say  the  impatient,  hur- 
rying folk,  "it  will  be  years  before  it  will  look 
like  anything!  I  must  have  something  that 
will  show  now — something  for  immediate  ef- 
fect." So  they  plant  the  annuals;  and  the  trees 
that  would  make  each  little  place  a  home  remain 
unplanted.  In  winter  the  gardens  are  bare  and 
in  early  spring  there  is  no  budding  nor  blooming 
to  cheer  with  the  first  breath  of  newcoming  life. 

But  now  the  old  gentleman  bent  tenderly 
over  tiny  trees  whose  growth  he  could  not  pos- 
sibly hope  to  see,  diminutive  "taxus"  seedlings 
which  carried  his  mind  to  their  forbears,  the 
great  yew  hedges  of  England,  two  or  three  cen- 
turies old. 


128  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

"Such  a  pity,"  he  murmured,  "that  our  cli- 
mate is  so  difficult  for  them."  Then  his  face 
lighted  and  he  went  to  the  next  house  to  see  his 
idol,  the  hedge  plant  of  the  future,  the  new  Ilex 
crenata,  or  Japanese  holly. 

Rudolph  Trommel  was  in  the  ilex  house  and 
the  two  old  men,  one  a  scholar  and  poet,  the 
other  scientist  and  workman,  with  the  devotion 
of  parents  bending  over  the  crib  of  a  new  baby, 
leant  together  over  the  branches  filled  with  the 
tiny  leaved  bronze-green  evergreen. 

"One  hundred  thousand,  we  haf,"  said  Ru- 
dolph Trommel,  patting  his  broad  chest. 

"It  is  the  hedge  plant  of  the  future,"  said 
Horace  Worthington,  glowing  with  enthusiasm. 
"It  will  be  to  America  what  the  Irish  yew  is 
to  England,  but  even  more!  The  leaves  are 
finer,  neater.  It  has  uniformity  without  mo- 
notony, denseness  with  lights  and  shadows.  It 
will  give  protection  such  as  no  other  plant 
affords.  Think  what  that  hedge  would  be  in  a 
rose  garden — a  background  of  precisely  the  right 
shade  and  density.  The  hemlock  hedge  is 
sombre;  this  will  give  a  wall  of  green  without 
the  sombreness.     It  will  mean  the  revival  of 


CHAPTER  TWELVE  129 

topiary  work.  People  may  even  become  gen- 
uinely, intelligently  interested  in  gardens,  in 
horticulture!     Can  you  not  see  it,  Trommel?" 

"Yes,  yes,  that  iss  so;  but  we  haf  not  yet 
assured  ourselfs  of  its  hardiness." 

"Nineteen  years  we  have  had  plants  in  the 
specimen  grounds  and  no  climate  change  has 
injured  them  in  the  least,"  answered  Horace 
Worthington,  enthusiastically. 

Old  Trommel  nodded.  "It  iss  a  wicked  und 
ungrateful  climate.  Nineteen  years,  yes;  per- 
haps twenty  und  that  climate  says  'No.'" 

Horace  Worthington  sighed.  "It  sometimes 
seems  as  if  the  Lord  dealt  with  modern  Ameri- 
cans in  the  matter  of  gardens  as  with  the 
Egyptians,  and  for  the  same  reason  (because  of 
the  hardness  of  their  hearts)  and  sent  plagues 
and  difficulties  upon  them.  When  I  was  a  boy 
fruit  growing  was  easy,  and  luscious,  beautiful 
fruit  we  had,  apricots  and  peaches  and  grapes; 
now  it  is  obtained  only  at  the  price  of  eternal 
vigilance!" 

"It  iss  inefitable,"  responded  Trommel.  "We 
reap  what  we  haf  sowed.  Nature — she  iss 
inexorable;  we  haf  destroyed  the  balance  with 


!!/ 


130  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

our  destruction  of  birds  und  of  trees  und  so 
fort,  und  we  pay.  The  Herr  Gott  iss  very 
heafy  on  people  who  blunder.  In  nature  it  iss 
better  to  be  efil  und  know  your  work  than  it  iss 
to  be  virtuous  und  blunder.  It  iss  not  vice,  it 
iss  not  virtue  that  iss  punished  und  rewarded, 
it  iss  ignorance.     Not  to  know  iss  the  sin." 

"Trommel,  Trommel,"  said  the  old  gentle- 
man reprovingly,  "that's  a  most  immoral  doc- 
trine!" 

"It  iss  true,"  said  old  Rudolph  calmly.  "Und 
the  trouble  with  most  doctrine  iss  that  it  iss  not 
true.  It  iss  based  on  theory  and  not  on  experi- 
ence. That  iss  why  so  many  good  people  are 
fools;  they  haf  not  the  courage  for  experiment. 
What  they  call  'Faith'  iss  shut  your  eyes  und 
chump!" 

Horace  Worthington  sighed.  "Intelligence 
is  not  a  moral  quality — nature  demands  intelli- 
gence and  skill.  That's  all.  And  the  truth  is 
with  the  dreamers  and  the  poets,  Trommel; 
the  visionaries  of  one  generation  are  the  leaders 
in  thought  of  the  next,  the  men  who  can  see!" 

The  two  old  men  passed  out  of  the  little  houses 
and  along  a  broad  grassed  path  to  the  open 


CHAPTER  TWELVE  131 

frames  where  were  the  young  grafted  plants, 
set  out  from  the  houses  from  their  first  winter — 
young  evergreens,  Japanese  maples,  rare  ever- 
greens. "  Not  one  has  been  lost,"  said  Rudolph 
proudly. 

"Look  at  the  colour,  Trommel!"  exclaimed 
Mr.  Worthington,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand 
toward  the  plantation  of  euonymus  they  were 
approaching,  where  the  symmetrical,  stiff 
branched  alatus  had  turned  a  deep,  brilliant 
rose  colour,  from  the  base  to  the  topmost  leaf. 
"Our  gardeners  do  not  know  how  to  avail 
themselves  of  it.  They  cannot  look  squarely, 
unbiasedly  at  the  future  or  the  present — they 
copy — copy — English  gardens,  when  our  climate 
will  not  encourage  the  English  rose  garden;  and 
Italian  gardens!  The  letter,  always  the  letter, 
when  it  is  the  spirit  they  should  take!  The 
ordered  beauty  of  the  English  garden — yes,  by 
all  means!  And  the  garden  brought  close  to 
the  house;  the  proportion  and  balance  and  sense 
of  values  of  the  Italian  gardens.  But  the 
material  must  be  our  own.  'The  spirit  maketh 
alive,  the  letter  killeth.'  Let  them  take  from 
the  older  gardens  their  impulse,  their  sincerity, 


132  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

their  readiness  to  experiment  with  new  things, 
their  belief  in  their  own  taste.  We  are  servile, 
afraid  to  trust  ourselves.  People's  minds  are 
hampered  by  the  past.  They  look  at  the  pres- 
ent with  preconceived  notions.  They  cannot 
visualize  the  future.  Not  yet  have  we  the 
type  of  gardening  that  fits  this  country!" 

Rudolph  Trommel  nodded.  "But  when  you 
haf  a  climate  that  iss  in  some  parts  Siberia  und 
iss  in  another  part  the  Riviera,  und  iss  in 
another  the  Desert  of  Sahara,  it  iss  not  easy  to 
fit  with  a  type  of  gardening." 

"But  that  is  just  it,"  said  the  old  gentleman 
eagerly.  "Variety,  Trommel,  variety,  that  is 
the  keynote  of  our  gardening;  and  our  landscape 
men  know  nothing,  practically  nothing  of  our 
silva,  they  are  ignorant  of  dendrology!  This 
country  of  ours  could  be  a  marvel  for  the  scope 
and  range  of  its  horticulture — for  the  brilliance 
of  its  gardening.  Japan,  England,  France  and 
Italy — we  could  make  them  all  into  a  living, 
vivid  unity  of  our  own,  just  as  our  English 
language  has  taken  from  Latin,  Greek  and 
French,  and  enriched  its  own  Anglo-Saxon! 
Nothing  in  England  or  the  Continent  is  com- 


CHAPTER  TWELVE  133 

parable  to  our  American  spring.  Our  gardens 
could  be  exquisite  with  rapid,  wonderful  changes 
from  March  until  late  June.  Our  summers  are 
hot  with  a  fierce  sun;  what  we  then  crave  in  our 
garden  is  shade,  coolness,  restfulness.  A  chance 
for  the  "green  thought  in  a  green  shade."  And 
do  we  have  it?  Look  at  the  elaborate,  noisy 
blaze  of  colour  in  August  in  our  most  elaborate 
gardens — and  the  family  naturally  and  inevi- 
tably stay  on  the  beach  or  go  to  the  mountains. 
Our  landscape  men  have  each  his  preferred  type 
of  garden.  He  applies  it  to  whatever  house 
falls  under  his  control." 

"That  iss  so!"  responded  Trommel.  "They 
are  afraid  to  experiment;  afraid  to  use  what  in- 
telligence they  have." 

"If  they  would  even  obey  their  instinct  it 
would  be  better.  Look  at  the  old  seacoast 
New  England  towns!  What  the  gardens  there 
most  sorely  need  is  shelter,  protection!  They 
have  needed  it  for  more  than  two  hundred  years; 
not  yet  has  it  been  given  them.  WHien  the 
owners  of  small  places,  of  little  gardens,  become 
genuinely  interested  in  horticulture,  then  we 
shall  have  American  gardens  of  interest  and 


\ 


134  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

variety.  It  must  be  a  growth — that  interest — 
and  I  believe  from  that  class.  So  shall  we  es- 
cape from  the  deadly  monotony." 

"Mr.  Worthington,"  said  old  Trommel  slowly, 
placing  his  hand  on  his  portly  stomach,  "I  be- 
lief I  know  the  reason  why  the  aferage  man  in 
the  suburbs  iss  so  little  interested  in  horticulture. 
The  reason  may  surprise  you,  but  it  iss  true. 
It  iss  the  lawn-mower!" 

"The  lawn-mower!"  echoed  Horace  Worth- 
ington. 

"Yes,  when  the  aferage  man  comes  home  from 
work  in  his  office  and  wishes  to  divert  himself 
by  work  in  his  garden,  what  offers  itself  as  need- 
ing imperatifely  to  be  done?  Is  it  to  prune  his 
roses,  to  stake  his  dahlias,  to  inspect  his  rare 
plants?  Something  that  requires  skill,  intelli- 
gence, insight,  und  therefore  iss  interesting? 
No!  It  iss  to  push  the  lawn-mower.  Always 
when  he  thinks  of  work  about  his  place,  it  iss 
the  idea  of  that  excellent  and  useful  instrument 
that  presents  itself.  His  work  iss  probably 
machine-like,  und  when  he  tries  gardening  that 
iss  machine  also.  No  intelligence  required,  just 
persistence. 


CHAPTER  TWELVE  135 

"Und  when  he  has  it  done,  there  iss  no  sense 
of  accomplishment,  no  feeling  that  he  has 
assisted  in  the  efolution  of  something  beautiful. 
No!  The  lawn  looks  better;  that  iss  all.  In 
two  or  three  days  he  must  do  it  again.  What- 
efer  impulse  he  had  toward  gardening  iss  thus 
diferted  by  the  constant  and  exclusif  present- 
ment of  the  uninteresting,  the  mechanical,  the 
onerous." 

"That  may  be  true,  Trommel,"  said  Mr. 
Worthington  reflectively. 

"It  iss  true,"  asserted  the  other,  "und  that  iss 
why  the  interest  of  women  in  gardens  iss 
greater.  They  are  not  expected  to  operate  the 
lawn-mowers.  That  task  falls  upon  the  hus- 
band or  reluctant  son,  or  it  iss  hired.  When 
an  American  first  has  a  little  place,  he  wishes  to 
'beautify,'  and  all  he  can  think  iss  lawn  and 
annuals.  The  annuals  iss  weeding,  and  water- 
ing the  lawn  iss  lawn-mower.  By  the  time  he 
would  learn  to  think  something  different,  his 
interest  iss  exhausted. 

"For  mineself,  I  rest  myself  in  my  little 
garden.  I  haf  an  arbour,  one,  two,  three  com- 
fortable chairs.     I  sit  und  smoke  und  think. 


136  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

From  where  I  sit  I  oferlook  my  garden.  I  see 
a  branch  of  my  espalier  iss  growing  wrongly. 
When  I  finish  my  pipe,  I  go  and  put  it  right.  I 
go  back;  I  smoke  again;  I  am  pleased.  I  say 
to  myself,  *  To-morrow  morning,  early,  I  will 
stake  those  chrysanthemums.'  It  iss  no  effort, 
no  burden;  it  iss  easy;  it  combines  itself  with 
rest  und  enjoyment.  The  usual  garden  com- 
bines itself  only  with  labour.  That  iss  a  mis- 
take. We  are  told  that  a  man  must  earn  his 
bread  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow.  That  is  well, 
but  when  he  sets  about  enjoyment  there  should 
be  as  little  sweat  of  the  brow  as  possible." 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

MICHAEL  O'CONNOR  sat  in  the  big 
chair  beside  a  table  covered  with  hor- 
ticultural magazines,  stroked  his 
white  Bismarckian  moustache  and  smiled  to  him- 
self as  he  watched  the  young  secretary  arrange 
papers  and  put  her  desk  in  order  preparatory 
to  leaving.     Presently  he  heaved  a  sigh. 

"Ye  miss  so  much  that's  useful  and  instruc- 
tive, Miss  Davenant,  be  stocktakin'  in  the 
mornin's  wid  the  long  lad  that's  pursuin'  horti- 
culture round  about  Roseb'ry  Gardens,  (though 
'tis  my  opinion  he'll  never  catch  her).  'Tis  a 
shame!  'Tis  here  in  the  office  that  things 
happen." 

"What  did  I  miss,  Michael?"  she  asked. 
"Mr.  Maurice  J.  Herford?" 

"  'Twas  no  one  av  importance,"  said  Michael t 
"only  another  lad  afther  horticultural  instruc- 
tion, like  the  wan  you  had  wid  you,  and  come  to 
the  fountain  head.    But  ye  should  have  seen  Mr. 

137 


138  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

Worthington !  He  was  grand!  Bullet-headed 
was  this  lad,  more  round  than  long,  and  close- 
cropped  as  to  hair  as  a  convict.  He  came  out  on 
the  eliven  train  and  drove  out  fr'm  th'  station 
in  a  carriage,  he  did. 

"'Is  this  Roseb'ry  Gardens?'  says  he,  lookin' 
intelligently  at  the  sign  over  the  office  door  wid 
the  letters  as  big  as  his  head. 

"'It  is,'  says  I. 

"'I  wish  to  see  Mr.  Worthington/  says  he, 
'Mr.  Horace  Worthington!' 

'"Show  him  in,  Michael,'  says  Mr.  Worth- 
ington, who  was  standing  in  the  door  av  his 
private  office. 

" '  I'm  not  sure  I  have  time  to  get  out,'  says 
the  bullet-headed  wan,  but  he  looked  at  his 
watch.  'Oh,  yis,  twinty  minutes,'  says  he,  and 
he  climbed  out  afther  all,  but  he  didn't  go  into 
the  old  gentleman's  private  office. 

'"I  was  told  that  you  know  about  trees,'  says 
he  to  Mr.  Worthington. 

" '  Something,  perhaps,'  says  the  old  gintle- 
man. 

"'Well,'  says  the  bullet-headed  wan,  'I'm 
to  have  the  app'intment  av  Inspector  av  Trees 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN  139 

f'r  the  Port  of  New  York/  says  he,  'to  protect 
our  agriculture  an'  horticulture  fr'm  insidjous 
disease,  for  the  ignorant  foreigners  might  sind  to 
us  trees  that  ar-re  not  hilthy,'  says  he,  'and  I 
want  ye  sh'u'd  tell  me  which  tree  is  which,'  says 
he,  'an'  how  ye  can  tell  if  a  bunch  av  trees  is 
not  all  right.' 

"  The  old  gintleman  just  stared  at  him  like  he 
couldn't  believe  his  ears. 

"'Well?'  says  me  bullet-head,  inquiring. 

"'Young  man,'  says  Mr.  Worthington,  pon- 
derous as  a  steam-roller,  'what  you  need  is  an 
edu-ca-tion! '  and  he  turned  to  go  into  his  office. 

"The  bullet-head's  jaw  dropped.  'But  I've 
got  twinty  minutes,'  says  he. 

'"An  edu-ca-tion,'  says  the  old  gintleman, 
'is  not  to  be  obtained  in  twinty  minutes!'  an' 
wid  that  he  goes  into  his  private  office.  The 
interview  was  ended. 

"The  bullet-head  stands  around  aimless-like 
for  a  while,  then  he  gets  into  his  carriage  f'r 
to  go  back  to  his  job  av  enlightening  the  na- 
tion." 

Roberta  laughed.  "Didn't  any  one  take 
pity  on  him?" 


140  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

Michael  nodded.  "I  gave  him  a  catalogue. 
I  c'u'd  let  no  wan  that  had  hands  to  hold  it  or 
a  pocket  f  'r  to  put  it  in  l'ave  the  place  widout 
that.  But  how  is  it  that  Mr.  Herford  is  not 
out  here  yet,  and  'tis  the  tenth  day  of  Septim- 
ber?" 

"How  should  I  know,  Michael?  He's  your 
client.  Very  likely  he  bought  all  the  trees  he 
needed  in  the  spring." 

Michael  shook  his  head. 

"'Tis  not  so.  F'r  ten  years,  before  the  first 
week  in  Septimber  was  over,  Mr.  Maurice  J. 
Herford  has  been  out  at  Roseb'ry  Gardens, 
buyin'  trees.  '  Buyin'  trees,'  says  Mr.  Worthing- 
ton,  'is  a  noble  passion.'  Some  poor  souls  has 
it  f'r  buyin'  books,  sinseless  and  unresponsive 
as  they  ar-re.  Once  an  intelligent  tree  buyer 
always  a  tree  buyer.  A  man  gets  the  habit, 
an'  'tis  a  foine  habit.  'Tis  that  way  wid  Mr. 
Herford.  Always  there's  new  things,  an'  al- 
ways me  foine  little  man  must  have  thim  on  his 
place.  Depind  upon  it,  Miss  Davenant,  whin- 
iver  you  see  a  man  buyin'  trees  well  and  intilli- 
gintly  and  stidily,  season  afther  season,  year 
afther  year,  ye  can  put  it  down  that  he  has  a 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN  141 

foine  mind.  Who  was  it  had  the  foinest  collec- 
tion av  evergreens  on  Long  Island?  'Twas 
Mr.  Richard  Hinery  Dana  at  Dosoris.  Hinery 
Ward  Beecher  was  another  intilligint  man  that 
knew  trees  well,  though  he  was  not  so  well  up 
in  rare  evergreens;  pomology  was  his  specialty. 
There  was  Mr.  Bancroft,  who  they  tell  me  wrote 
foine  hist'ries.  I  don't  know  about  his  hist'- 
ries,  but  he  knew  enough  about  roses  to  have 
had  a  job  at  Roseb'ry  Gardens.  Francis  Park- 
man  was  another  foine  rosarian,  but  I  belave 
he  had  bad  hilth,  poor  man.  'Twould  sure 
have  been  worse  if  he'd  known  nothing  about 
roses.  An'  I've  heard  that  Joseph  Chamberlain, 
the  Premier  av  England,  knew  orchids.  'Tis 
the  best  thing  I've  heard  av  him,  an'  it  may  save 
his  sowl  from  what  it  deserves  f'r  his  cru'lty 
an'  indifference  to  the  sufferin's  av  Ireland, 
though  that's  not  sayin'  but  he'd  a  foine  head- 
piece if  he'd  have  used  it  right.  'Tis  the  same  in 
everything.  But  these  lads  that  come  around, 
not  to  buy,  but  to  take  up  workin'  people's 
toime  widout  doin'  anything  but  troublin' 
people  that  ar-re  wor-rkin',  wid  questions — 
they're  a  sad  lot." 


142  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

In  truth  Michael  O'Connor  did  not  take 
kindly  to  horticultural  aspirants,  and  from  him 
Paul  Fielding  had  but  little  assistance.  Trom- 
mel would  answer  questions  in  a  bluff,  gruff 
fashion,  but  clearly  and  definitely;  Mr.  Worth- 
ington,  with  elaborate,  old-fashioned  courtesy 
and  detail;  but  it  was  little  aid  that  O'Connor 
would  give  the  "long  lad"  in  his  newly  awak- 
ened interest  in  camellias.  He  did  not  take 
kindly  to  his  visiting  the  big  cool  greenhouse 
where  were  the  half-hardy  plants.  The  old 
workmen  were  cordial  enough,  but  could  give 
scant  information. 

For  instance,  the  second  morning  that  Paul 
went  to  the  camellias  house  he  found  old  Tim- 
othy Cullen,  one  of  the  most  aged  of  the  Gar- 
den's retainers,  scrubbing  the  pots  with  careful, 
trembling  fingers. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Fielding,"  he  said  in  a 
high,  quavering  voice,  "God  bless  yez!  The 
saints  bless  yez !  God  bless  yez  body  and  soul ! 
May  all  the  saints  have  care  of  yez." 

"Thank  you,  thank  you,"  said  Paul  Fielding 
hastily.  He  watched  in  silence  a  moment  and 
then:  "Why  are  you  scrubbing  the  pots?" 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN  143 

Old  Timothy  looked  at  the  pot  in  his  hand. 
"The  boss  towld  me  to.  'Tis  somethin'  about 
the  pores  an'  the  cirkilation.  They  sicken  if 
they  aren't  clane.  That's  all  I  know !  Ask  the 
boss." 

Just  then  Michael  O'Connor  entered,  his 
blue  gardener's  apron  secured  with  a  string 
about  his  waist,  a  bunch  of  raffia  stuck  in  the 
string. 

"  Oh,  'tis  you ! "  he  said.  "  Good  mornin'.  I 
was  wonderin'  for  who  it  was  that  Timmy  was 
callin'  down  the  saints!  And  what  is  it  this 
mornin  f 

"I  wanted  to  see  the  camellias." 

"They're  there,"  said  Michael  curtly.  He 
picked  up  one.  "That's  Abby  Wilder."  He 
set  it  down  and  took  up  another.  "Ye  c'n 
see  them,  the  label's  there." 

"Do  you  grow  them  here?" 

"Hundreds  of  thim.  Mr.  Trommel,  he 
grafts  thim.  If  you're  round  here  thin  ye  can 
see  him." 

"What  stock  does  he  use?" 

"What  stock  sh'u'd  he?  'Tis  Camellia  ja- 
ponica ! " 


144  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

"The  single  red?"  asked  Fielding  eagerly. 

"The  same,"  responded  Michael. 

Paul  Fielding  pulled  out  his  notebook,  then 
felt  for  his  pencil.  "Must  have  lost  it!"  he 
exclaimed.  "I'll  be  back  in  a  moment.  I  dare 
say  I  can  find  one  in  the  office." 

"  Belike,"  responded  Michael.  Then  to  Tim- 
othy as  the  door  closed:  "Quick,  Timmy,  the 
tobacco!" 

"Eh,  what?"  the  old  man  quavered. 

"We  must  smoke  out.     'Tis  very  necessary." 

"Smoke  out?"  The  old  man  got  up  slowly. 
"'Tis  not  a  week  yet,  Mister  O'Connor;  ye're 
forgettin'." 

"Quick  wid  ye,  Timmy!  'Tis  not  forget- 
tin' I  am!  It's  rememberin'.  'Tis  a  saint's 
day!  Saint  Maurice  of  Herford,  the  patron 
saint  av  gardens;  ye  will  have  bad  luck  wid 
camellias  the  whole  year  if  ye  don't  smoke 
thim  out  to  exorcise  the  imps  av  darkness  and 
dhrive  thim  away!" 

The  tobacco,  placed  in  little  piles  along  the 
greenhouse  paths,  was  already  burning  when 
Paul  Fielding  returned. 

"Stay  as  long  as  ye  like,"  urged  Michael  hos- 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN  145 

pitably.  "I'm  sorry  I  can't  stay  wid  ye,  but 
I've  to  see  to  unpackin'  these  boxes  in  the  shed." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  greenhouse  door  opened 
and  the  young  man  emerged  coughing  and 
sputtering. 

"What!"  said  Michael  indignantly;  "have  the 
b'ys  begun  to  smoke  the  house?     'Tis  a  shame ! " 

"Ugh!  what  rotten  tobacco!"  said  Paul 
Fielding. 

"'Tis  the  Hod  Carrier's  Revinge!"  said 
Michael  grimly. 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

NOW  that  the  stock-taking  was  finished 
and  Henry  Stirling,  faithful,  industri- 
ous, and  colourless,  was  back  in  the 
office,  Roberta  returned  to  her  old  habit  of 
spending  the  early  mornings  in  the  gardens, 
sometimes  with  old  Trommel,  oftener  alone. 
And  Paul,  who  might  have  learned  considerable 
from  Trommel  or  Mr.  Worthington,  rode  again 
with  Major  Pomerane. 

Roberta  had  learned  from  Trommel  something 
of  the  horticulturist's  interest  in  variety,  in  the 
slight  and  important  differences  that  make  the 
variation  in  species,  and  from  Horace  Worthing- 
ton something  of  his  keen  interest  in  habit,  char- 
acter, and  form.  "People  do  not  understand 
habit"  the  old  gentleman  would  say  impatiently. 
"Their  only  interest  in  plants  is  in  their  brief 
seasons  of  blooming — important,  of  course,  but  in 
grouping,  in  combining,  it  is  habit,  character,  that 
should  be  considered.     Our  landscape  men  do 

146 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN  147 

not  understand  this;  they  do  not  know  horticul- 
ture! Their  knowledge  of  plants  is  limited, 
painfully  limited!  Yet  they  should  know  them 
as  an  artist  knows  his  palette." 

The  old  gentleman  was  fond  of  expounding 
his  theories  to  Roberta,  and  found  her  a  far  more 
sympathetic  listener  than  either  Trommel, 
who  would  calmly  say,  "That  iss  not  so,"  or 
Michael  O'Connor,  who  would  assent  to  every- 
thing with  a  "yis,  yis,"  and  then  shift  the  sub- 
ject. He  would  walk  through  the  specimen 
grounds  with  her  of  a  late  afternoon  and  explain 
his  ideas  of  landscape  art. 

The  gardens  were  very  lovely  now,  but  it 
was  a  quiet  loveliness.  There  was  a  soft  hazi- 
ness in  the  colour,  a  touch  of  the  stillness  that 
comes  with  the  end  of  summer,  a  peaceful 
beauty,  very  different  from  the  dazzling,  pas- 
sionate radiance  of  the  springtime.  "Ceres," 
as  Mr.  Worthington  would  say,  "is  a  far  more 
placid  deity  than  young  Flora."  The  broad 
squares  of  azaleas  which  had  been  a  riot  of 
splendour  and  brilliance  were  now  merely  squat, 
sturdy  little  green-clad  Hollanders,  with  no  hint 
of  the  gorgeousness  that  had  been  theirs  and 


148  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

would  be  theirs  again.  They  had  "gone  back 
to  the  Silence"  as  completely  as  Fire  and  Bread 
and  Water  in  the  Maeterlinck  play. 

Here  and  there  an  eager  hastening  plant 
came  out  bravely  in  its  autumn  finery  before  its 
fellows — such  as  the  winged  euonymus,  which 
was  flushed  a  deep  rose  colour  from  the  base  to 
the  topmost  stem,  and  andromeda,  with  copper- 
coloured  leaves  and  a  seeding  head  that  looked 
like  the  plumes  of  blossoming  corn.  There  were 
regiments  of  little  Japanese  evergreens,  gay  in 
their  green  and  gold  livery,  which  had  been 
unnoticed  among  the  summer's  magnificence 
and  now  came  into  their  own;  there  were  rows 
of  white  pine,  holding  up  tiny  candles,  playing 
at  being  Christmas  trees. 

Most  interesting  of  all  were  the  berries  on  the 
fruiting  shrubs,  some  of  them  showing  a  second- 
ary effect  which  rivalled  many  a  spring  beauty, 
such  as  the  euonymus  known  as  Sieboldianus 
with  clusters  of  heavy  coral-pink  pendants 
almost  as  charming  as  Japanese  plum  blossoms, 
each  one  splitting,  bitter-sweet  fashion,  to  dis- 
close scarlet  fruit. 

"Madame  Nature  is  putting  on  her  jewels  for 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN  149 

the  evening,"  said  Roberta  to  herself  as  she 
walked  along  the  broad  grassy  paths.  There 
were  clusters  of  jet  on  the  privet  that  were  in- 
deed jewel-like,  garnet-coloured  fruit  on  the 
callicarpa,  scarlet  and  crimson  berries  on  bar- 
berry and  viburnum,  while  on  the  white-fruited 
dogwood  were  small  ivory  berries  set  off  by  coral 
stems.  The  blues  were  exquisite — peacock- 
coloured  berries  clustered  on  the  silky  dogwood; 
symplocus  of  a  wonderful  turquoise  blue  were 
set  off  admirably  by  the  smooth,  shining  bronze- 
green  foliage;  blues  from  the  soft,  dull  "old 
blue"  of  the  spirea  to  the  deep  and  exquisite 
tint  of  the  few  fringed  gentians  that  made  their 
home  deep  in  the  grass  where  the  lower  planta- 
tion neared  the  marshes. 

"Blue,"  Mr.  Worthington  would  say  to 
Roberta  with  an  eloquent  wave  of  his  hand 
toward  symplocus  berries  or  the  soft,  dull  spirea 
blossoms,  "is  a  marvellous  colour.  Nature  is 
prodigal  of  it  in  sea,  sky,  and  distant  landscape, 
chary  of  its  use  in  vegetation  but  most  careful 
and  accurate.  Hidden  in  depths  of  green,  as 
in  the  gentians ;  spreading  through  the  grass,  as 
the  Houstonia  and  the  purple  crocus,  it  gives 


150  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

from  a  distance  the  effect  of  water  stealing 
through  the  grass  and  reflecting  the  sky.  Al- 
ways it  is  in  close  and  beautiful  combination 
with  green.  That  is  what  Keats  observed  when 
he  speaks  of  blue  as 

"'  Married  to  green  in  all  the  sweetest  flowers.* 

Shakespeare's  Violets  dim,'  does  not  mean  that 
there  is  anything  indefinite  or  indistinct  about 
the  colour.  He  refers  to  the  charming  way  in 
which  the  flower,  half  hidden  in  green,  is  but 
dimly  seen — now  visible,  and  now  not.  We  per- 
fect its  cultivation  and  carefully  destroy  this 
lovely  effect. 

"Our  landscape  men  should  go  to  the  poets," 
he  continued  impatiently,  "not  only  for  inspira- 
tion, but  for  ideas.  People,  especially  Ameri- 
cans, make  the  mistake  of  thinking  that  because 
a  poet's  expression  is  beautiful,  his  ideas  are 
necessarily  unsound  and  impractical,  yet  theirs 
is  the  clearest  vision. 

"Wordsworth  and  Walter  Scott  were  admi- 
rable gardeners;  Tennyson  had  a  good  sense  of 
proportion;  then  there  is  'Knight's  Landscape,' 
which  every  park  commissioner  should  read. 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN  151 

I  am  not  so  sure  about  Shelley.  Exquisite  as 
his  poetry  is,  and  at  home  as  he  was  in  sky, 
wind,  and  cloud,  he  was  curiously  unobservant 
in  the  matter  of  plants.  In  that  otherwise 
beautiful  poem,  'The  Sensitive  Plant/  you  will 
remember  that  the  lady  who  removed  from  the 
garden  the  destructive  insects,  merely  carried 
them  to  another  place  and  there  liberated  them 
to  commit  further  depredations. 

"  'The  poor  banished  insects  whose  intent, 
Although  they  did  harm,  was  innocent.' 

He  let  his  humanitarianism  run  away  with  the 
horticulture!  Robert  Browning,  you  remem- 
ber, first  became  aware  he  was  a  poet  when 
sitting  under  a  large  copper  beech,  reading  in 
the  moonlight  from  Keats  and  Shelley.  Un- 
doubtedly Camber  well  was  not  an  artistically 
ideal  suburb  for  a  young  poet,  but  who  in  our 
suburbs  would  think  of  reading  Keats  or  Shelley 
on  an  electric-lighted  porch  open  to  the  street, 
the  only  tree  in  sight  a  miserable  Carolina 
poplar! 

"Who  plants  beeches  now?     And  it  is  the 
most  poetic  and  mystic  of  trees,  linked  with 


152  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

mythology  for  centuries.  Beside  it  the  Norway 
maple  is  a  raw,  cheap  edition  of  the  newest, 
most  worthless  novel  compared  to  the  Divina 
Commedia!" 

The  young  secretary  was  not  so  keenly  dis- 
tressed at  the  lack  of  poetic  imagination  among 
landscape  gardeners  as  she  possibly  should  have 
been.  It  was  too  exquisite  a  morning.  The 
broad  grass  paths  were  so  dewy  as  to  wet  her 
thick  boots,  and  the  heavily  hung  jewelled 
branches  of  shrubs  brushed  her  coat  as  she 
walked  along  rapidly,  hands  thrust  deep  into 
her  capacious  pockets.  At  the  end  of  the 
azalea  plantation  she  turned,  passed  through 
an  opening  in  the  hedge,  and  came  suddenly  on 
young  Mr.  Fielding,  of  Paradise  Park,  South 
Carolina. 

He  also  had  been  early  afield,  for  his  riding 
boots  were  wet  and  in  his  coat  was  a  bit  of 
symplocus  berry.  He  pulled  off  his  cap,  baring 
a  shock  of  light  hair  to  the  morning  sunshine. 

"Good  morning!"  he  said  happily,  his  gray 
eyes  lighting  with  pleasure.  "So  you,  too,  are 
out  early?" 

"Catching  the  worm,"  said  Roberta.     "Are 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN  153 

you  specimen  hunting,  Mr.  Fielding?  The 
stock-taking  is  over." 

The  young  man  laughed  and  shook  his  head. 
"Jes'  loungin'  'round  an'  sufferin',  like  Br'er 
Tarrypin,"  said  he. 

Roberta  laughed  also:  Paul  Fielding's  laugh 
was  infectious.  "You  should  quote  Doctor 
Watts  instead  of  Uncle  Remus;  that's  what 
Aunt  Adelaide  would  tell  you.  'How  doth  the 
little  busy  bee  improve  each  shining  hour!' 
That's  what  I  used  to  be  told  when  I  went  off  in 
the  early  mornings  and  came  back  with  wet 
shoes  and  wet  frock  instead  of  using  the  time  at 
my  lessons!" 

"Dear  Miss  Davenant,"  said  Paul,  "there 
are  some  hours  that  need  no  improvement  and 
this  is  one  of  them.  It's  a  great  mistake  to 
improve  anything  that's  already  shining !  Aren't 
you  gardener  enough  for  that?  I  rode  out  on 
Captain;  he's  fastened  over  there  by  Washing- 
ton's residence.  We  went  round  the  edge  of 
the  marshes,  and  all  the  way  I  was  hoping  I'd 
find  you  just  here.  And  I  have.  And  it's  a 
perfect  morning.  I  met  you  here  in  May. 
Do  you  remember?     You  were  singing." 


154   ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

Roberta  nodded.     " It's  a  bad  habit  of  mine." 

"Mighty  pretty  habit.  I  remember  what 
you  were  singing,  a  scrap  of  the  Flower  Song, 
'Revellez  a  son  ame  le  secret  de  ma  flamme,' " 
he  chanted  cheerfully.  "See,  I  have  them  for 
you — blessed  dew  on  them  and  all.  Will  you 
have  them?" 

He  held  out  two  fringed  gentians,  looking  at 
her  with  such  sudden  intensity  of  feeling  that 
the  girl  flushed  and  hesitated. 

"You  had  the  flowers  last  time;  it's  far  more 
correct  this  way,"  he  hastened  to  reassure  her 
in  his  most  casual  tones.  "Miss  Adelaide  would 
say  so." 

Roberta  took  the  gentians  and  held  them, 
looking  at  their  wonderful  colour.  She  could 
never  quite  make  out  Fielding.  The  Southerner 
in  her  took  an  attempt  at  love-making  lightly 
and  carelessly,  but  the  New  Englander  in  her 
held  it  to  be  a  very  serious  thing,  as  serious  as 
the  Day  of  Judgment,  so  to  feel  deeply  yet  to 
speak  lightly  was  a  bit  difficult  for  her  to  under- 
stand. 

"They  are  lovely,"  she  said,  looking  at  the 
gentians,  "  the  most  beautiful  colour  that  ever 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN  155 

was  made — the  sea  and  the  sky  and  the 
night " 

Paul  Fielding  did  not  speak  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, then  he  said: 

"I'm  off  to  my  native  haunts,  Miss  Davenant. 
Going  down  to  Paradise  Park  the  end  of  the 
week.  This  is  nice,  mighty  nice,  but  it's 
dalliance.  I'm  going  back  to  the  rice-fields  and 
the  big  oaks,  and  I'm  going  to  make  that  blessed 
old  wilderness  of  a  place  do  something  besides 
blossom  like  a  rose.  It's  going  to  be  industrious 
— like  me — and  produce  a  comfortable  liveli- 
hood. There's  going  to  be  real  Northern  en- 
ergy down  there!  I  know  what  I  want  to  do 
with  it  now." 

"We've  no  monopoly  on  energy,"  laughed 
Roberta. 

"No,  but  you  like  to  be  uncomfortable,  to 
leave  out  all  the  pretty  things  of  life,  else  you 
don't  feel  that  you're  working  seriously.  That's 
what  I'm  going  to  do:  leave  out  the  pretty 
things." 

Roberta  smiled.     "I'm  sorry  you  are  going." 

"Miss  Adelaide's  coming  down  for  Christ- 
mas!" 


156  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

"  What ! "  exclaimed  Roberta. 

"Yes,  she  is,"  asserted  Paul  Fielding.  "Just 
you  ask  her !  She's  coming  down  to  see  the  old 
plantation,  and  I've  promised  her  a  recipe  for 
a  conserve  of  roses,  and  she's  going  to  show  us 
how  marmalade  should  be  made." 

'  *  Aunt  Adelaide ! ' '    Roberta  was  incredulous . 

"Aunt  Adelaide,"  repeated  Fielding.  "  You've 
no  idea  how  adventurous  she  can  be.  Maybe 
I'll  have  her  riding  and  'coon-hunting  before 
the  visit  is  over!  And  Lordy!  I've  got  to  go 
down  now  to  try  if  I  can  get  old  Calliope  to 
have  the  house  sufficiently  spick  and  span. 
You'd  better  come  to  look  after  Miss  Ade- 
laide," he  continued  casually.  "I've  a  horse 
that  you'd  like — Roanoke — and  'coon-hunting 
by  torchlight's  right  good  fun." 

"Is  it?"  said  Roberta  doubtfully. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Fielding  eagerly,  "and  it 
would  be  so  instructive !  You  can  find  out  lots 
about  early  experiments  in  indigo.  The  first 
botanic  garden  in  the  country  was  at  Charles- 
ton. Up  the  river  is  all  that's  left  of  the  stock- 
ade wall  of  Old  Dorchester,  where  your  Puritans 
came  down  two  centuries  ago  to  uplift  us,  but 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN  157 

got  tired  and  went  back.  There's  really  abun- 
dant horticultural  interest,"  he  said  gravely. 
"There  may  be  a  business  proposition  for  you 
down  there." 

"I'll  think  about  it."  But  what  she  thought 
made  Roberta  flush  a  little,  and  a  meddlesome 
breeze  caught  a  lock  of  her  bronze  hair  and  blew 
it  across  her  face. 

The  young  fellow  had  a  sudden  impulse  to  take 
the  girl  in  his  arms  and  kiss  her  flushed  cheek 
where  the  bright  hair  rested.  He  resolutely 
thrust  both  hands  in  his  pockets.  '"The  Place 
and  the  One,' "  he  said  to  himself,  "but  it  isn't  the 
'Time.'"  A  moment  later  he  lifted  her  hand, 
the  right  hand  that  held  the  gentians,  and  kissed 
the  fingers.  "I  came  out  to  say  good-bye," 
said  he.  "Will  you  wish  me  luck  with  the  old 
plantation?" 

"The  best  in  the  world." 

"If  you  really  wish  it,  I  shall  have  it,  and 
I  thank  you."  He  turned  and  went  quickly 
through  the  opening  in  the  hedge. 

Roberta  stood  looking  at  the  gentians  in  her 
hands;  then  she  went  slowly  back  to  the  office. 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

ROBERTA  returned  to  the  dingy  little 
office  without  so  much  as  looking  at 
^  the  heavily  berried  shrubs  that  brushed 
her  sleeve  and  had  so  engrossed  her  attention  a 
short  half-hour  before.  She  put  the  gentians 
in  a  glass  of  water  on  her  desk  and  took  up  her 
morning's  work,  but  she  was  rather  absent- 
minded.  The  trouble  was  that  part  of  her  brain 
persisted  in  staying  down  where  the  young  oaks 
marked  what  Michael  called  the  End  Entirely, 
and  her  vision  remained  at  the  break  in  the  hedge 
through  which  Paul  Fielding  had  disappeared. 
She  smiled  to  herself,  whimsically,  at  his 
very  obvious  secret,  as  one  smiles  at  a  child's 
painstaking  and  fruitless  concealment,  for  a  girl 
of  nineteen  is  at  some  points  ages  older  than 
a  man  of  nine  and  twenty,  and  Paul  was  only 
twenty-six.  Women  are  nearer,  curiously 
nearer,  to  the  heart  of  things.  The  Serpent  must 
have  had  several  conversations  with  Mother  Eve 

158 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN  159 

before  the  crucial  step,  and  she  had  doubtless 
sampled  many  of  the  apples  of  wisdom  before 
she  thought  of  offering  one  to  Adam.  Although 
knowing  perfectly  well  what  was  in  his  mind, 
Roberta  was  relieved  that  Paul  had  not  forced 
an  issue,  had  not  made  it  necessary  for  her  to 
say  what  she  would  not  like  to  have  said;  she 
was  glad  that  he  had  not  "spoiled  things." 
Yet  something  in  her,  shy  and  reluctant,  wished 
he  had  not  left  quite  so  much  unspoken. 

She  pushed  back  the  coppery  hair,  settled  a 
hairpin  or  two  snugly,  by  way  of  moral  emphasis 
after  the  manner  of  women,  and  turned  reso- 
lutely to  her  work. 

Brief  moments  of  poetry  are  followed  rapidly 
enough  by  prose  in  this  work-a-day  world,  and 
prose  in  a  concrete  form  came  definitely  before 
Roberta. 

"'Tis  a  teacher,"  said  Michael  O'Connor; 
"'tis  nature  study  she's  afther.  Maybe  you'd 
be  good  enough,  Miss  Davenant — she  says  she 
knows  you.  I've  no  time  for  the  likes  of  her — 
I  know  the  kind — she'll  not  be  buy  in'  a  thing. 
It'll  just  be  breakin'  branches  an'  askin'  ques- 
tions." 


160  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

Roberta  left  her  desk  and  turned  to  meet  the 
visitor  that  Michael  presently  brought  to  her — 
tall  and  angular  with  pale  brown  hair  worn 
high  over  a  high  forehead. 

"Good  afternoon,  Miss  Ross,"  said  Roberta, 
recognizing  her  directly. 

"I  want  some  nature  material,  Miss  Dave- 
nant;  stuff  for  a  nature  talk,  you  know,  that  I'm 
going  to  give  on  Monday.  You  must  have 
some  things  out  here  that  will  do.  Those  are 
rather  pretty — those  blue  things — what  are 
they?"  She  nodded  in  the  direction  of  the 
gentians. 

Instinctively  Roberta  put  out  her  hand  and 
moved  them  to  a  less  conspicuous  position. 
"Gentians,"  she  answered  briefly,  then,  to 
distract  her  visitor's  attention,  "Won't  you 
come  out?  I  dare  say  we  can  find  some  things 
you  would  like  for  the  children." 

The  visitor  grated  on  her  mood — grated 
abominably. 

"  What  are  those  little  green  things?  "  pointing 
a  finger  at  some  thrifty  young  roses.  "What's 
the  freak  red  bush?"  She  indicated  a  flaming 
euonymus. 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN  161 

Roberta  took  out  her  budding  knife  and  cut 
for  her  visitor  some  sturdy,  hard-wooded  things 
— branches  of  bitter-sweet,  dogwood,  privet  in 
berry,  explaining  to  her  the  bird's  liking  for  the 
ivory  candidissima  berries.  "I  don't  mind  her 
having  those,"  she  said  to  herself.  "They've 
no  feelings  to  hurt." 

Seeing  Michael  at  the  end  of  a  path,  she  went 
hastily  to  him.  "Do  take  her,  Michael!  She's 
worse  than  a  dealer!" 

"Is  she  so,"  said  Michael  sympathetically. 
"Well,  I'll  finish  wid  her.  Dig  the  rest  of  the 
list,  b'ys,"  he  called  to  his  gang,  "I'll  be  wid 
yez  at  the  shed." 

"Miss  Davenant  is  wanted  at  the  office,"  he 
said  guilelessly  as  he  took  the  post  of  cicerone. 

Twenty  minutes  later  the  two  returned  to  the 
office.  Miss  Ross,  besides  her  handbag  and 
notebook,  clasped  a  few  fringed  gentians  whose 
roots  were  dangling  helplessly. 

"I  wanted  these,"  she  said.  "I'm  giving 
the  class  Bryant's  'Fringed  Gentian,'  and  you 
know  that,  if  possible,  the  class  should  be  shown 
a  flower.  You  should  have  a  daffodil  if  you  do 
Wordsworth's  'Daffodils.'    These  seem  scarce." 


162  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

"There  are  very  few  here  now,"  said  Roberta 
slowly.  "Those  were  down  at  the  end  of  the 
lower  plantation?" 

"Yis,"  said  Michael. 

"I  hope  you  tell  the  children  that  the  flower's 
a  biennial  and  that  they  must  leave  some  al- 
ways for  seed,  or  it  will  be  exterminated! 

"Michael!  How  could  you  let  her!"  said 
Roberta  reproachfully,  when  the  nature  student 
had  gone. 

"Let  her  what?" 

"Pull  up  the  last  gentians!" 

"Sure  I  thought  she  was  a  fri'nd  of  yours. 
She  wanted  to  find  some.  They're  wild,  ye 
know.  She  pulled  up  none  of  the  nurs'ry  stock, 
though  she  did  spile  one  rhodydendron  wid 
breakin'  av  a  branch.  They've  very  little 
sinse,  have  teachers.  She  called  a  retinospora 
a  juniper  just  afther  I  had  showed  her  the 
juniper. 

"'How  do  you  tell  the  differ?'  says  she. 

"'Make  cuttin's  f'r  an  hour,'  says  I.  'Ye  get 
yer  fingers  well  pricked,  an'  'tis  a  juniper;  ye 
don't,  an'  'tis  a  retinospora.  'Tis  a  f  oine  botani- 
cal distinction.' " 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN  163 

"I'm  sorry  about  the  gentians,"  repeated  the 
girl  regretfully. 

"Sure,"  said  Michael,  "an'  there's  things  ye 
should  be  sorrier  about,  Miss  Davenant,  than 
thim!  Mr.  Herford  was  here  Chuseday,  just 
as  you  were  off  f'r  the  farm  wid  the  long  lad. 
Niver  a  plant  did  he  buy.  He  just  came  out  to 
the  greenhouse  an'  set  down  by  me.  '  Michael,' 
says  he,  *  there's  an  old  sayin',  "Youth  flies  to 
Youth." '  Niver  a  tree  did  he  buy;  niver  a 
wor-rd  did  he  say  about  the  foine  place  up 
the  Hudson  he's  afther  buyin'  that  ye'r  to 
fix  up  as  ye  like — niver  a  wor-rd!  What  have 
ye  done  to  my  little  man?"  he  demanded 
severely. 

Roberta  laughed.  "Maybe  he  prefers  spring 
planting." 

Michael  shook  his  head.  "Transplantin'," 
he  said;  "that's  all  he  cares  about,  an'  whether 
the  sile  an'  situation  he  has  is  suitable.  "  '  Youth 
flies  to  youth,  Michael,' "  says  he,  lookin'  as 
cheerful  as  a  tinder  hydrangea  whin  the  frost 
has  struck  it. 

"'Sure  an'  it  may,'  says  I,  'f'r  a  bit  av  cav- 
oortin'  like  a  kite  in  the  breeze,  but  whin  it 


164  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

comes  to  settlin'  down  in  life,  Miss  Davenant 
has  sinse  enough  to  choose  a  good  sile  an' 
situation  an'  not  thrust  to  luck  wid  a  con- 
tractor's leavin,s.,,, 

"I  didn't  know  you  dealt  in  parables,  Mi- 
chael." 

"Sure,  an'  I'll  deal  on  annything  that'll  sind 
me  little  man  home  happy." 

"So  our  young  friend  Fielding  is  returning  to 
Carolina,"  said  Mr.  Worthington  to  Roberta  a 
few  mornings  later. 

"So  he  told  me,"  she  answered. 

"Ah!  He  came  in  the  other  evening  to  pay 
his  respects.  Quite  an  interesting  lad.  He  pur- 
poses trying  camellia  growing  on  his  estate;  it 
will  be  a  valuable  experiment." 

"Very." 

"The  first  horticultural  experiments  were 
in  South  Carolina,  the  first  horticultural  soci- 
ety. Laurens,  Franklin's  fellow  ambassador  to 
France,  had  a  fine  botanic  garden  at  Charleston, 
but  the  horticultural  interest  seems  rather  to 
have  lapsed.  I  am  rejoiced  to  see  it  reviving.  So 
much  could  be  done  there — so  much!"  said  the 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN  165 

old  gentleman,  who  could  always  see  horticul- 
tural visions.  "They  should  make  hedges  of 
Camellia  japonica  and  of  azalea,  and  yet  I  hear 
they  are  using  the  Norway  maple  as  a  street 
tree  and  replacing  with  it  their  own  Pride  of 
India,  a  magnificent  thing,  and  the  live-oak,  a 
tree  of  lordly  habit.  It  is  the  landscape  men, " 
said  the  old  gentleman  impatiently.  "They 
have  no  knowledge  of  the  sylva  and  flora  of  a 
given  region,  only  a  few  recipes  which  must 
serve  for  all  parts  of  the  country.  An  Arabian 
gardener  of  the  eleventh  or  twelfth  century 
would,  if  given  our  problems,  work  out  a  more 
interesting  and  less  hackneyed  conclusion!  I 
am  indeed  glad  to  see  a  youth,  who  must  under- 
stand his  own  conditions  and  climate,  go  else- 
where for  study,  and  then  return  to  work  out  his 
local  problems.     It  is  encouraging. 

"The  old  practise  of  education  by  travel  had 
much  to  commend  it,  especially  where  horticul- 
ture and  gardening  are  concerned.  I  should  ad- 
vise it  also  for  our  city  officials,  so  that  they  would 
not  regard  methods  of  proved  value  in  Paris  or 
Berlin,  or  Vladivostock  as  dangerous  experi- 
ments.    A  man  should  travel  early  in  his  youth, 


166  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

before  his  opinions  become  hardened.  I  am 
glad  that  Colonel  Fielding  keeps  to  the  old  idea 
and  insists  that  his  son  travel  before  settling 
down.  But  he  should  send  him  to  Italy,  to 
France.  You  should  travel,  Roberta.  There's 
nothing  so  valuable  as  what  one  gets  through 
the  eye!  Not  the  printed  page,  but  the  vision 
— the  vision!"  With  that  the  old  gentleman 
went  into  his  private  office. 

"Is  it  thrue?"  asked  Michael,  when  he  met 
Roberta  in  the  long  packing  shed  the  morning 
after  Fielding's  departure. 

"Is  what  true?" 

"Is  it  thrue  that  the  long  lad  has  had  the 
sinse  to  go  back  to  his  native  swamps?" 

"Mr.  Fielding  has  gone  back  to  South  Caro- 
lina." 

"'Tis  well,"  said  Michael  with  satisfaction. 
"'Tis  the  place — is  swamps,  f'r  the  long-legged 
kind,  an'  no  place  at  Roseb'ry  Gardens  f'r  lads 
that  buy  no  plants  at  all  at  all.  If  he  was 
thrainin'  f'r  to  be  a  wor-rkin'  gardener — that's 
one  thing.  He'd  larn  to  buy  f r'm  the  right  place ; 
but  to  larn  to  grow  somethin'  to  sell  to  us — I've 
no  use  f'r  him,  nor  the  like  of  him!" 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN  167 

Roberta  laughed.  "Can't  you  ever  think  of 
trees  except  to  sell  them,  Michael?  " 

"Miss  Davenant,"  he  said  soberly,  "it's— 
it's  pie  to  me.  I  don't  know  what  I'd  do  in 
Hiven  if  I  couldn't  sell  trees!" 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 

ROBERTA  had  not  realized  how  much  of 
colour  and  life  Paul  Fielding  would 
take  with  him  from  Roseberry  Gardens. 
In  the  spring,  during  the  riot  of  colour,  the 
weight  of  the  prevailing  elderly  or  middle-aged 
personnel  of  the  place  was  unnoticed;  but  in  the 
autumn,  now  that  quietness  was  settling  down 
on  the  gardens,  she  missed  the  dull  clatter  of  his 
horse's  hoofs  on  the  earth  road  and  his  joyous 
greeting  through  the  window,  and  the  invigorat- 
ing effect  of  the  young  fellow's  gladsome  pres- 
ence. 

She  herself  had  delighted  Roseberry  Gardens 
by  her  warmth,  colour,  and  eagerness,  and  was 
now  the  only  young  life  there.  Roseberry 
Gardens  with  its  elderly  workmen  and  silver- 
haired  directors  had  seemed  out  of  the  world, 
full  of  a  quiet,  dreamy,  potent  charm  of  its  own. 
Roberta's  part  had  been  that  of  Miranda  to 
Prospero,  while  Paul  had  intruded  as  a  possible 

168 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN  169 

Ferdinand.  Or  she  felt  as  Ulysses  might  have 
felt,  if  some  carrier  pigeon  had  brought  a  Grecian 
newspaper  to  Calypso's  isle,  and  then,  after 
introducing  a  disturbing  element,  had  flown 
away.  Perhaps  the  truth  was,  that,  like  most 
New  England  young  folk,  the  girl  needed  a 
little  play. 

But  Paul  was  right  about  Miss  Adelaide. 
Roberta  found  her  constantly  engrossed  in  time 
tables  or  pamphlets  and  the  question  of  whether 
the  rail  or  steamer  route  would  be  the  more 
interesting.  The  two  other  aunts — Miss  Mar- 
cia  and  Miss  Elizabeth — were  fainter,  less  posi- 
tive echoes  of  Miss  Adelaide. 

"Neither  Marcia  nor  Elizabeth  would  think 
of  travelling,"  said  she. 

"And  are  you,  Aunt  Adelaide?"  asked  Ro- 
berta. 

"I  have  a  very  courteous  letter  from  Colonel 
Fielding  speaking  of  our  great  kindness  to  his 
son,  and  wishing  that  he  might  be  honoured  by 
our  presence  there  at  Christmas.  He  believes 
that  we  are  related  through  the  Dalrymples. 
It  might  be  very  interesting,  very  beneficial, 
and  both  Colonel  Fielding  and  his  son  seem  so 


170  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

anxious  for  it  that  I  dislike  to  disappoint  them!" 
Miss  Adelaide,  like  a  true  New  Englander,  gave 
every  other  excuse  than  her  own  preference. 

Roberta  smiled.  "You  wouldn't  dislike  go- 
ing?" 

"No,  oh,  no,"  said  her  aunt  hastily.  " On  the 
contrary  it  might  be  most  interesting,  but  both 
Marcia  and  Elizabeth  refuse  to  go;  they  say  it 
is  too  far." 

"You  would  like  me  to  go  with  you?"  asked 
Roberta,  who  had  something  of  the  business- 
man's liking  for  plain  facts. 

"Well,  my  dear,  you  are  becoming  so  used  to 
affairs,  to  shipments,  railroads,  and  the  like, 
that  I  should  feel  quite  safe  with  you." 

"I'll  do  what  you  wish,  Aunt  Adelaide,"  said 
Roberta  who  also  was  New  Englander  enough 
to  feel  it  necessary  to  dress  a  pleasure  in  the 
sheep's  clothing  of  a  duty  in  order  that  it  might 
stand  at  the  right  hand. 

"But  there's  no  need  whatever  of  deciding 
at  once,  except  that  I  must  answer  Major  Field- 
ing's letter.  A  very  charming  letter,"  she 
remarked,  taking  it  up  and  holding  it  care- 
fully as  she  left  the  room.     "I  shall  use  my 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN  171 

gilt-edged  paper  to  answer  it  and  the  Davenant 
seal." 

The  young  secretary  might  have  been  seen  the 
next  day  coming  home  a  bit  early.  She  walked 
rapidly  down  the  path  beside  the  plantations 
and  more  slowly  down  the  elm-fringed  street. 
At  the  Davenant  house  she  closed  the  gate 
softly,  went  up  the  narrow  cobblestone  path, 
opened  the  door  quietly — it  was  never  locked, 
for  nobody  locked  doors  in  Meadowport — and 
stepped  into  the  dusk  of  the  wide,  dim  hall. 

For  a  reason  she  could  not  explain,  she  closed 
the  door  softly,  went  softly  through  the  wide 
hall  which  ran  straight  through  the  house,  and 
out  of  the  door  on  the  other  side  where  a  broad 
grassy  terrace  overlooked  the  river. 

Davenant  House  had  always  reminded  Ro- 
berta of  her  aunts  and  her  aunts  of  the  house. 
She  never  was  quite  sure  whether  it  had  taken 
its  colour  and  atmosphere  from  them,  or  they 
from  it.  There  was  the  same  handsome  but 
rather  grimly  forbidding  aspect  of  the  street- 
side,  the  conventional  side.  Heavily  shaded 
was  the  house  by  two  great  maples  set  too 


172  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

close;  out  past  the  somewhat  cloistral  dimness 
of  the  hall  was  the  pleasantness  of  the  broad 
terrace  open  to  the  morning  sun,  friendly  and 
uninviting  to  a  degree  wholly  unsuspected  by 
those  who  only  knew  the  house  from  the  street. 
The  garden  was  like  Roberta — utterly  unrelated 
and  apart. 

The  terrace,  twenty  feet  wide  and  running 
the  whole  length  of  the  house,  was  more  South- 
ern than  New  England  in  character.  It  was 
defined  by  a  low  box  hedge  and  a  broad,  flagged 
path  ran  down  the  centre.  At  one  end  were 
huge  lilac  bushes,  at  the  other  house  corner  a 
grapevine  sent  one  branch  around  for  decora- 
tion, while  the  other  did  its  proper  duty  as 
arbour  by  the  kitchen  door.  The  terrace  was 
one  of  the  many  traces  Roberta's  mother  had 
left.  Before  her  coming  the  rear  of  the  house 
had  been  completely  ungraced — only  a  slope  of 
uncared-for  grass  cut  by  a  straggling  foot-path. 
She  had  won  the  terrace,  not  by  insistence  of  a 
right,  but,  as  she  usually  won  things,  by  coax- 
ing. 

"Anything  you  like,"  Robert  Davenant  had 
said.     "Turn  the  old  house  upside  down.     I 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN  173 

dare  say  it  will  like  it.  But  do  it  without  up- 
setting Adelaide;  she's  a  dear  old  thing  and 
hates  changes." 

Margery  had  laughed.  "I'm  the  most  rad- 
ical change  she  could  possibly  have — and  she 
doesn't  hate  me,  Robert!  A  terrace  is  mild 
beside  me;  she  won't  mind;  she'll  let  me  cut  the 
southeast  window  down  to  a  French  one  so  you 
can  almost  let  the  roses  in  to  breakfast  with  us ! 
You  New  Englanders  keep  flowers  at  such  a 
distance!" 

"There'll  be  hardly  any  difference  at  all, 
Adelaide,"  she  had  urged.  "Only  two  steps 
down  instead  of  a  slope — and  you'll  like  it, 
truly!  And  when  the  little  fellow  comes" — 
she  had  been  sure  her  baby  was  to  be  a  boy — 
"he  will  trot  up  and  down  under  your  window 
and  look  up  at  you  and  laugh,  and  you  will 
say,  *  Robin,  don't  step  off  the  flagging  until  the 
grass  is  dry!'  just  as  you  say  to  me.  But  I'm 
terribly  afraid  if  there's  some,  bright  coloured 
flower  over  by  the  hedge  he  will  toddle  over 
after  it  in  spite  of  that!"  Mrs.  Robert  Dave- 
nant  had  had  a  vivid  and  pictorial  imagination. 

So  the  traditional  downstairs  bedroom  had 


174  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

been  changed  into  a  sunny  little  breakfast-room 
and  on  warm  June  mornings  the  roses  over  the 
French  window  almost  did  come  in  for  break- 
fast, while  under  the  windows  were  poet's  nar- 
cissus and  tulips  and,  later,  tall  hollyhocks 
which  looked  in  sociably  at  the  windows. 

"I  shall  teach  the  little  fellow  to  say  'good 
morning'  to  that  very  friendly  hollyhock, 
Robert" — a  great  rose-coloured  one  that  crooked 
its  stalk  to  look  in.  "You've  no  idea  on  what 
very  intimate  terms  flowers  will  be  with  you 
if  you  let  them!" 

She  would  make  her  husband  choose  a  rose  to 
take  with  him  to  his  dingy,  musty  Main  Street 
office,  by  way  of  talisman.  "It's  better  than  a 
rabbit's  foot,"  she  would  say. 

She  would  have  a  small  table  moved  out  on 
the  terrace  and  breakfast  there  beside  her  hus- 
band with  the  elderly  lilacs  and  the  friendly 
roses  for  observers,  or  coax  a  socially  inclined 
squirrel  until  he  would  almost  come  to  her  chair 
for  bits. 

Such  things  were  unheard  of  in  Meadowport, 
and  would  have  worried  it  sorely,  but  Meadow- 
port,  fortunately,  could  not  look  through  the 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN  175 

old  house  to  the  sunny  terrace  nor  around  the 
corner  of  the  lilac  bushes.  It  had  all  charmed 
Robert  Davenant.  Like  most  New  Englanders 
he  had  no  idea  how  much  poetry  and  charm 
could  be  put  into  the  so-called  common  things 
and  felt  as  if,  in  his  House  of  Life,  he  had  been 
living  all  these  years  with  shades  drawn  and 
shutters  closed,  with  no  knowledge  of  the  sun- 
shine and  flowers  outside  until  this  sudden 
opening  to  their  radiance. 

But  the  sunshine  had  gone  from  the  terrace 
when  Roberta  stepped  out  on  it  that  afternoon 
— it  only  touched  the  tops  of  the  lilac  bushes. 
u Margery's  Terrace,"  her  aunts  always  called 
it,  and  the  girl  often  thought  that  it  was  a  lovely 
thing  to  have  left  through  all  these  years  so 
definite  an  impress  of  a  blithe  personality. 
Roberta  had  never  known  her  mother,  but  for 
the  first  time  she  felt  a  bit  lonely  without  her. 
The  aunts,  kind  as  they  were,  seemed  as  apart 
from  life,  from  vivid,  active,  joyous,  pulsating 
life,  as  if  they  were  pictures  on  the  wall.  Her 
mother,  dead  these  nineteen  years,  seemed  more 
vital. 

The  girl  walked  with  her  quick,  sure,  noise- 


176  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

less  step  along  the  smooth-clipped  grass,  down 
the  broad  steps  by  the  lilac  bushes,  across  the 
lawn  shaded  by  great  elms,  opened  the  white- 
painted  gate  and  passed  into  the  garden,  down 
the  long  centre  path  between  the  rows  of  ardent 
marigolds  to  the  little  latticed  summerhouse  at 
its  foot.  She  sat  down  and  looked  across  the 
garden — dwarf  fruit  trees  framed  it  on  the  side 
toward  Major  Pomerane's  place.  Toward  the 
orchard  was  a  long,  low  grape-arbour,  where 
now  the  vines  were  hung  with  heavy,  ripening 
clusters.  The  garden  itself  lay  all  gold  and 
purple  in  the  late  September  sunshine,  rows  of 
sunny  marigolds,  late  larkspur  sending  up  a 
secondary  bloom  and  already  seeding,  while  tall, 
straggling  Michaelmas  daisies  showed  royal  pur- 
ple there  by  the  dwarf  apples  which  showed 
crimson  through  their  foliage. 

But  Roberta  was  not  thinking  of  the  garden. 
Her  mind  was  off  and  away  at  Paradise  Park, 
and  over  and  over  in  her  head  she  was  turning 
the  question — to  go,  or  not.  Much  of  the  pros- 
pect fascinated  and  called  her,  yet  she  knew  per- 
fectly, with  that  inside  knowledge  women  have, 
that  once  there  Paul   Fielding   would    speak 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN  177 

more  definitely.  Did  she  wish  him  to?  That 
was  the  question.  If  she  did  not,  ought  she 
to  go? 

A  swallow  flew  in  and  out  again  of  the  little 
arbour,  on  seeing  the  intruder.  Her  eyes 
rested  on  the  opposite  bench;  an  inch- worm  was 
slowly  and  unconcernedly  measuring  his  way 
across,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left. 
"That's  the  way  I  ought  to  work  I  suppose." 
Presently  in  flew  a  swallow  and  snapped  up  this 
conscientious  insect.  The  girl  pushed  back  her 
hair  with  an  impatient  gesture — why  need  one 
look  across  and  beyond,  and  around  the  corner? 
"It's  not  my  fault  if  I  have  a  notion  of  what 
may  happen,"  she  said  to  herself. 

There  was  a  quick  tap,  tap,  of  a  cane  on  the 
gravel,  the  click  of  a  latch,  and  the  Major  en- 
tered through  the  little  private  gate  that  had 
always  been  between  the  two  gardens. 

"Bless  my  soul!"  he  exclaimed,  "it's  the  lady 
of  Roseberry  Gardens!  Michael  here  was  sniff- 
ing as  if  there  were  some  extraordinary  interest. 

"'What  makes  you  come  so  soon? 
You  used  to  come  at  six  o'clock 
And  now  in  the  afternoon! ' " 


178  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

The  Major  quoted  cheerfully,  altering  the  child- 
ish lines  to  suit  his  whim.  His  taste  in  verse 
was  young  enough  to  have  pleased  the  smallest 
auditor. 

"I  thought  you  never  quit  until  the  last  work- 
man was  gone,  the  last  gun  fired.  But  Michael 
was  sure  there  was  something  interesting  across 
the  fence." 

"I'm  taking  an  afternoon  off,  Major,"  said 
Roberta. 

"Turning  your  back  on  Duty,  eh?" 

She  nodded. 

"  Good  thing ! "  he  said.  "  Serious  vice — over- 
industry.  Never  had  it  myself,  but  I've  ob- 
served. Insidious,  mischievous,  undermines  the 
health,  ruins  the  capacity  for  enjoyment.  Very 
prevalent  in  New  England.  I  was  afraid  you 
had  contracted  it,  my  child !  I've  been  getting 
alarmed.  There's  lots  of  it  round.  'Stern 
Daughter  of  the  gods'  is  all  right  for  Duty — 
she  is  that;  but  she  isn't  the  only  daughter  of 
the  gods.  She  should  take  her  turn  and  keep  her 
place.  That's  it,  Duty  should  be  kept  in  her 
place.  Joy  of  Life  is  a  daughter  of  the  gods 
also." 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN  179 

Roberta  laughed.  "Don't  you  believe  in  the 
industrious  Franklin,  Poor  Richard,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing,  and  in  going  to  the  ant, 
Major  Pomerane?" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it!"  said  the  Major  sturdily. 
"Franklin  did  what  suited  him.  If  he  kept  his 
nose  to  the  grindstone,  it  was  because  he  liked 
it  there.  As  to  the  ant — what  does  she  do  any- 
way but  dig  and  burrow  and  make  her  pile, 
like  a  fool  millionaire?  I'd  rather  have  bobo- 
links and  blackbirds  round  my  garden  any  day 
than  ants.  They're  more  decorative,  pleasanter 
company,  and  just  as  useful.  There's  plenty 
of  people  that  I  believe  would  stop  the  bobolink's 
music  and  set  'em  scratching  the  ground  like 
hens  in  the  name  of  industry  and  utility  and 
swap  their  music  for  a  cackle. 

"Don't  you  let  any  one  cheat  you  out  of  the 
joyousness  of  life,  my  child!  It's  your  right! 
If  something  would  make  you  happy,  take  it;  if  it 
wouldn't  make  you  happy,  refuse  it !  There  are 
more  lives  spoiled  by  a  mistaken  sense  of  Duty 
than  by  badness ! " 

"What  a  dangerous  philosophy,  Major,"  said 
Roberta.     "So  you  don't  believe  in  training, 


180  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

in  pruning,  and  in  all  the  rest  that  horticultur- 
ists swear  by?" 

"In  reason,  in  reason,  but  you  garden-daft 
people  see  to  it  that  a  plant  has  the  soil  it  likes. 
You  don't  put  a  sun-loving  thing  in  the  shade 
and  a  shade-loving  thing  in  the  sun.  People 
are  forever  doing  that  with  their  children. 
Young  folks  need  sunshine  and  laughter  and 
gaiety,  and  they  ought  to  have  them!  Don't 
you  get  embedded  in  the  soil  at  Roseberry  Gar- 
dens and  glued  to  a  notebook  like  the  old  fossils, 
when  the  Lord  sends  such  mornings  as  he  has 
the  last  week,  and  Nancy  is  just  eating  her 
head  off  in  the  stable,  growing  bad-tempered  for 
lack  of  a  gallop!  Your  father  was  a  fossil,  but 
your  mother  wasn't.  I'm  growing  alarmed  about 
you,  Roberta!  Are  you  going  to  take  all  that 
love  of  flowers  and  gardens  that  your  mother  had 
and  screw  it  into  Bob  Davenant's  legal  dry-kiln 
method?  He  only  used  it  on  cases  anyway.  He 
grew  to  have  a  real  feeling  for  plants.  But  your 
mother — she  loved  them  like  a  hummingbird. 
I  don't  wonder  Paul  went  home  disgusted." 

"Disgusted  with  what?"  asked  Roberta. 

"Roseberry  Gardens,  I  reckon,"  said  the  old 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN  181 

gentleman,  rising  a  bit  stiffly.  "  I  know  he  went 
off  mighty  sudden.  Perhaps  it  was  the  other 
way  round.  Maybe  he  was  afraid  if  he  stayed  a 
bit  longer  he'd  get  the  germ — the  same  thing  all 
the  old  fossils  there  have — and  couldn't  leave  it 
for  the  life  of  him.  So  he  put  wax  in  his  ears, 
shut  his  eyes,  and  just  ran — fled  temptation." 

Roberta  flushed  a  little.  Her  old  friend 
looked  at  her  curiously. 

" '  So  sits  the  wind  in  that  quarter,' "  he  said. 

"What  quarter,  Major?" 

"Southwest,"  he  said,  looking  off  at  the  sky; 
"it's  going  to  be  a  pretty  morning  again  to- 
morrow. What  shall  I  tell  Nancy  when  I  give 
her  her  oats  to-night?" 

"Tell  her  I'll  go  with  pleasure,"  said  Roberta. 

"Good  child!  And  don't  you  bother  your 
head  about  that  young  idiot  cousin  of  mine — a 
few  bumps  won't  hurt  him.  Needs  'em — make 
his  brains  grow." 

Roberta  and  the  Major  rode  out  through  the 
misty  morning,  first  along  the  meadows  where 
the  red- winged  blackbirds  had  sung  all  summer; 
then  by  a  steep  horseshoe  curve  up  the  river 
bluff,  past  a  group  of  ugly  little  houses  that 


182  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

clustered  about  a  railroad  track,  drawn  appar- 
ently by  its  ugliness  to  the  level  beauty  of  the 
elm-fringed  street;  then  straight  back  to  the  hills 
past  the  dingy,  uncomfortable  little  houses  that 
had  set  themselves  between  the  quiet  serenity 
of  the  street,  with  its  square,  old-fashioned 
houses,  and  the  hill  country. 

"Let's  go  fast  past  these.  They  aren't  pretty," 
said  Roberta.  Soon  the  road  began  to  climb  and 
presently  grew  narrower  and  the  copper  and 
gold  leaves  underfoot  were  less  trodden.  The 
October  mists  hung  heavily,  and  the  foliage  was 
damp  and  gleaming  in  the  sunlight  that  made 
its  way  through  the  reluctant  fog.  The  rocks 
were  wet,  and  along  them,  now  on  a  stone  wall, 
now  on  a  fence  rail,  flashed  a  chipmunk. 

Slowly  the  mist  rose,  disentangling  itself  from 
the  trees. 

The  Major  and  Michael  kept  an  eye  out  for 
the  grouse.  Now  and  then  Michael  had  suc- 
ceeded in  flushing  one  and  had  come  back  in 
pride  and  disgust  that  no  one  would  take  advan- 
tage of  it. 

"No  use,  boy,"  Major  Pomerane  had  said. 
"  She's  turned  gardener — she's  no  use  for  a  gun 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN  183 

— pretty  soon  she'll  have  none  for  you  or  me 
or  Nancy ! " 

Roberta  looked  for  a  moment  over  the  valley 
and  the  town,  then  off  toward  the  gardens. 

"I  must  go  back,"  she  said,  "but  it's  lovely," 
and  she  leaned  over  to  pat  Nancy  Lee's  gleam- 
ing neck. 

"Aunt  Adelaide,"  she  said  when  she  came 
home  from  her  work  that  evening,  "I'll  take 
you  South  if  you  like." 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN 

PAUL'S  father,  Carlton  Fielding,  was 
land  poor.  Paradise  Park  stretched 
back  acres  and  acres  from  the  Cooper 
River.  It  had  belonged  to  the  Fieldings  since 
the  original  grant  more  than  two  hundred  years 
back,  from  the  Lords  of  the  Province.  In  Revo- 
lutionary days  it  had  been  a  notable  place  with 
splendid  gardens,  magnificently  laid  out.  Of 
these  there  was  little  left,  but  the  stately  avenue 
of  giant  liveoaks  bowed  with  moss  was  more 
beautiful  than  ever,  and  the  curve  of  the  river 
was  subtle  and  lovely  at  Paradise  Park — as  if 
river  and  gardens  were  completely  in  sympathy, 
and  had  long  loved  each  other,  and  lived  to- 
gether in  perfect  accord.  Now  the  beautiful  old 
place  was  heavily  burdened,  its  acres  hopelessly 
mortgaged.  Resources,  which  would  have  been 
ample,  were  maddeningly  unavailable  for  lack 
of  capital.  The  worry  of  it,  the  years  of  debt- 
burdened  anxiety,  had  turned  Colonel  Fielding's 

184 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN  185 

hair,  once  a  shock  as  yellow  as  Paul's,  perfectly 
white  at  forty.  Paul,  in  fact,  could  not  remem- 
ber his  father  otherwise  than  with  white  hair. 

At  Paul's  age — four  years  younger,  in  fact, 
at  twenty-two — Colonel  Carlton  Fielding  had 
faced  the  difficult  problem  which  most  men  of 
the  South  in  1865  met  with  splendid  courage. 

To  fight  bravely  is  one  thing;  there  is  a 
certain  glamour  and  a  historic  fascination  about 
it  which  have  a  tremendous  appeal  to  a  young 
man's  imagination.  There  is  also  the  con- 
tagion of  enthusiasm;  but  to  face  the  results  of 
war  with  bravery  and  endurance  requires  cour- 
age of  a  far  higher  order.  There  is  no  glamour 
about  poverty;  no  martial  music  to  aid  in 
setting  one's  face  to  the  slow  work  of  repairing 
heart-breaking  devastation;  no  charm  nor  fasci- 
nation in  taking  up  one's  life  again  with  crippled 
resources. 

"Why  not  sell  the  place?"  practical  relatives 
and  friends  advised  him  repeatedly.  But  Carl- 
ton Fielding  loved  it.  He  would  almost  as  soon 
have  thought  of  selling  his  son. 

We  Americans  are  growing  to  be  a  nomadic 
people,  especially  those  of  us  who  live  in  cities 


186  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

and  shift  cheerfully  and  easily  from  apartment 
to  apartment,  from  hotel  to  hotel,  with  no  con- 
ception of  how  a  man  may  love  his  home  acres 
— the  trees  and  bushes,  even  the  doorstep.  It 
was  not  for  nothing  that  Moses  desired  the 
Israelites  to  rest  "every  man  under  his  own 
vine  and  fig  tree, "  rather  than  in  his  own  tent 
or  house. 

Affections  cannot  easily  hang  on  brick  and 
mortar,  still  less  on  hired  brick  and  mortar;  they 
need  something  more  responsive.  The  great 
oaks,  the  wide  lawn  spaces  where  the  waving 
shadows  of  the  moss-draped  trees  lay  heavily, 
the  tangles  of  Cherokee  roses  which  made  the 
edge  of  a  swamp  as  full  of  mystery  as  an  en- 
chanted land,  had  been  woven  into  Carlton 
Fielding's  life  from  his  earliest  childhood. 

To  keep  the  place  had  been  a  long  fight. 
Even  now  a  Northern  millionaire  was  anxious 
to  buy  it  outright  and  entire.  Some  of  the 
woodland  had  gone — the  pine  woods.  That 
was  the  year  Paul  was  born.  And  year  after 
year,  as  the  trees  were  removed,  skidded, 
damaging  the  rest  of  the  forest  sorely,  Colonel 
Fielding  felt  as  if  he  had  betrayed  his  friends. 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN  187 

There  was  phosphate,  too,  but  to  mine  that  would 
have  involved  the  loss  of  the  great  oak  trees. 

So  Fielding  had  chosen  foolishly,  practical 
people  thought,  had  kept  the  inheritance  essen- 
tially intact,  selling  off  only  the  less  intrinsic 
part,  and  had  worked  steadily  and  persistently 
at  restoring  the  rice  plantation,  rebuilding  the 
dykes,  which  kept  out  the  slightly  salt  river- 
water,  and  with  exceeding  difficulty  and  scant 
equipment  was  growing  rice  of  steadily  increas- 
ing quality. 

The  gardens  he  had  of  necessity  left  more  or 
less  to  their  fate,  which  was  far  kinder  to  them 
than  if  they  had  been  remodelled.  The  magnifi- 
cent lines  of  the  lordly  old  place  remained 
unchanged.  Four  huge  camellias  marked  the 
corners  of  the  one  time  rose-garden.  The  walks 
and  boundaries,  the  box  hedges,  were  the  same 
as  in  his  grandfather's  time;  and  here  and  there, 
at  exactly  the  right  points,  was  planted  the 
Virginia  cedar,  where  in  Italy  a  red  cedar  would 
have  been  set.  There  were  walks  hedged  by 
magnolias  that  made  a  wall  of  green  as  close  and 
dark  as  an  ilex  hedge  as  they  leaned  together 
far  overhead  to  arch  it.     But  where  had  been 


188  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

parterre  and  flowery  border  was  grassy  space, 
and  from  it  tons  of  hay  were  cut.  Over  the 
elaborate  terraces  that  descended  to  the  river, 
cows  were  grazing,  kept  from  the  gardens  by  a 
beautiful  wrought-iron  gate. 

Much  as  he  loved  Paradise  Park,  Carlton 
Fielding  had  been  unwilling  that  Paul  should 
take  the  burden  of  it  on  his  shoulders — in  any 
case,  not  until  he. had  had  a  look  at  other  things. 
So  he  sent  him  North,  not  to  Harvard,  for  Para- 
dise Park  could  not  afford  that,  but  to  one  of  the 
smaller  colleges  tucked  securely  away  in  the 
New  England  hills. 

When  Paul  made  up  his  mind  to  come  back  to 
the  old  place,  Carlton  Fielding  was  radiantly 
happy. 

"Yo'  sho'  look  ten  years  younger,  Marse 
Carl,"  said  old  Calliope  the  morning  after  Paul's 
return. 

For  it  was  a  new  Paul  that  had  come  back — a 
Paul  no  longer  listless,  but  eager  and  interested 
in  every  detail  of  his  father's  work,  alive  to 
every  point  in  the  rice-growing,  a  Paul  who,  at 
seven  in  the  morning,  was  afield  with  the  men — 
a  Paul  on  whose  bookshelves,  beside  De  Mau- 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN  189 

passant  and  Stevenson  and  Balzac,  stood  books 
of  agriculture  and  pile  upon  pile  of  Government 
Bulletins. 

"When  there's  a  new  zest  for  work,  or  a  new 
interest  in  apparel,"  said  Colonel  Fielding  to 
himself  as  he  surveyed  Paul's  room,  "its  'cherchez 
lafemme,'  as  sure  as  in  a  crime!" 

When  Paul  asked  his  father  to  invite  Miss 
Davenant  and  Roberta  down  for  Christmas, 
Carlton  Fielding  smiled.  "So  that's  the  girl," 
he  said  to  himself.  "Thank  the  Lord  she's 
sent  him  back  to  Paradise  and  rice-growing. 
It  might  have  been  trailing  over  Europe  or 
business  up  North. 

"Surely,"  he  said  to  his  son,  " ask  'em  all  down, 
Paul!" 

Then  he  wanted  a  description.  "Tell  me 
what  she's  like,  Paul!" 

"Oh,  wait  and  see,"  said  Paul  evasively. 

"I'm  afraid  of  those  Northern  girls.  They're 
so  confoundedly  brisk  and  businesslike.  I 
don't  mind  a  woman  being  clever — though  I'd 
rather  she'd  be  sweet,  that's  really  cleverer— 
but  those  Northern  girls  are  what  the  Yankees 
call  'smart' — and  I  don't  like  it." 


190  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

"She  isn't  'smart,'  Dad,"  said  Paul  reassur- 
ingly, "but  she's  bright  enough  to  care  to  see 
Paradise  Park.  I  reckon  it's  the  oaks  and 
camellias  she's  coming  to  see,  rather  than  me 
and  you!" 

Carlton  Fielding  looked  affectionately  at  the 
young  fellow's  clear,  strong  profile,  and  laughed 
gently. 

"Oaks  and  camellias  are  a  right  good  excuse, 
Paul.  In  my  day  it  was  to  see  the  roses  or  to 
try  a  horse.  By  all  means  let  her  come  and 
see  them.  The  camellias  will  be  pleased,  and 
so  will  I.  But  can  she  ride?"  he  ended,  anx- 
iously. 

"  She's  the  only  girl  I  met  up  North  who  could, 
Dad.     I'd  trust  her  with  anything  on  four  legs." 

Carlton  Fielding  drew  a  sigh  of  relief.  "If 
she  can  ride  and  shooed  you  back  to  rice- 
growing,"  he  said,  "she's  not  a  fool  or  a  molly- 
coddle." 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN 

MISS  DAVENANT,"  said  Michael  one 
morning,  "have  ye  there  no  order 
Fr  Mr.  Maurice  J.  Herford?  I  think 
there's  a  small  wan  that  shVd  go  this  month. 
'Tis  now  the  twintieth." 

For  October  had  passed  without  Mr.  Herford, 
and  November  bade  fair  to  do  the  same.  Still 
no  slender,  gray-clad  figure  stepped  out  at  the 
office  door.  "  'Tis  a  shame,"  said  Michael,  to 
himself,  "  if  he  does  not  know  that  the  land's  been 
cleared  an'  the  weeds  t'run  over  the  fence." 

The  secretary  spent  a  few  moments  in  re- 
search with  the  order-book. 

"There  are  a  few  evergreens  down — look 
like  small  ones  for  window-boxes.  I  can't 
find  any  instructions." 

"They  sh'u'd  go  at  once,"  said  Michael  de- 
cisively, "an'  I  have  a  decoration — a  pot  for  the 
table,  made  up  mesilf,  that  I'm  after  sindin' 
him  fr  Thanksgivin' — that  can  go  along  as 

191 


192  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

sort  av  bokay.  Put  it  down  on  the  bill,  'one 
plant — gratis.'     That  means  'tis  a  prisint." 

"Very  well,"  said  Roberta. 

"I  wonder  will  he  understand?"  said  Michael 
to  himself  as  he  worked  happily  over  his  offering 
at  his  potting  bench  at  the  end  of  the  long  green- 
house. He  had  before  him  a  wide-mouthed 
bulb-pan,  perhaps  six  inches  deep,  and  in  the 
centre  of  his  creation  was  a  foot-high  slender 
Southern  pine,  with  a  tuft  of  green  at  the  top. 

"That's  f'r  the  long  lad,"  he  remarked.  "I'll 
label  it  to  be  sure."  And  he  scrawled  in  his 
cramped  hand  on  the  small  wooden  label,  "P. 
Fieldingii  S.  Caroliniensis."  "P.  stands  f'r 
Paul  as  well  as  f'r  Pinus.  In  the  language  of 
plants  an'  av  larnin',"  he  said,  "that  means 
that  long  lad  is  pulled  up  fr'm  Roseb'ry  Gardens 
an'  sint  where  he  belongs!" 

Closely  about  the  centre  piece  Michael  set 
young  ardisias,  gay  with  scarlet  berries.  "These 
are  f'r  cheerfulness — to  show  we're  well  contint 
without  him."     He  filled  in  the  space  about  the 

edge  with  tiny  box  plants .     ' '  These  are  for ' ' 

He  stopped.  "I  don't  well  know  mesilf.  Mr. 
Herford  will  think  it  out.    Belike  they  stand 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN  193 

f'r  Roseb'ry  Gardens  that's  goin'  on  just  the 
same!" 

Michael  surveyed  his  handiwork  with  pride  for 
a  few  moments.     Then  he  sought  the  teamster. 

"Washington,"  said  he,  "ye're  to  leave  this 
box  at  Mr.  Herford's  house  in  town,  an*  ye're 
not  to  tell  me  it's  out  of  the  way,  f'r  it's  right  on 
it  if  ye  go  a  mile  or  so  around!  Ye'r  name  is 
jist  Washington,  is  it  not?     And  not  Gear-rge?  " 

"That's  right,  boss,"  said  Washington  grin- 
ning. 

"'Tis  well.  Ye  sh'u'd  say  that  the  box  is 
wid  Miss  Davenant's  compliments.  D'ye  mind 
that!" 

"Wid  Miss  Davenant's  compliments,  yas- 
sir,"  repeated  Washington. 

"That's  right.     Now  off  with  you ! " 

"You  are  shipping  to  Mr.  Herford,  Michael?" 
asked  Mr.  Worthington,  as  Michael  passed  his 
door. 

"Just  a  few  little  evergreens,"  said  Michael. 
"  He's  not  plantin'  as  he  sh'u'd  this  fall." 

"People  will  not  plant  in  the  autumn!"  said 
Mr.  Worthington  impatiently. 

"Now  is  the  time  they  should  be  making  rose- 


194  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

gardens,"  continued  the  old  gentleman,  "now 
when  it  can  be  done  properly.  Yet  they  will 
not.  They  will  try  to  do  it  in  June  when  the 
roses  are  in  bloom." 

Trommel  grunted  impatiently.  "Autumn 
planting  iss  foresight,  und  foresight  belongs  to 
good  gardening.  America  iss  not  a  people  of 
gardens.  A  good  garden  belongs  to  leisure  und 
contemplation.  Und  where  is  leisure  and  con- 
templation with  a  people  that  rush  for  trains 
und  hang  by  a  strap  in  the  streetcars? 

He  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  chair  in  Mr.  Worth- 
ington's  private  office  with  his  workman's  apron 
on  and  a  bunch  of  raffia  tucked  in  the  string 
about  his  portly  waist. 

"They  must  set  rose-gardens  in  bloom,  und 
plant  fruit  trees  in  fruit,  und  gardens  while 
you  wait.  The  symbolic  plant  of  America  is 
Chonah's  Gourd.  Quick  it  goes  up,  und  quick 
it  goes  down." 

Mr.  Worthington  laughed.  "The  passion 
for  immediate  effect  is  older  than  America, 
Trommel: 

"'In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 
A  stately,  pleasure  dome  decree*, " 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN  195 

declaimed  the  old  gentleman.  "Decree,  you 
observe,  Trommel — there  is  the  idea  of  imme- 
diateness." 

"If  one  could  believe  the  minister  of  that 
church  where  I  wass  choined  (und  where,  thank 
Gott!  I  am  choined  no  more),  the  wish  for 
immediateness  iss  from  the  creation,  und  the 
Almighty  himself  has  set  the  pernicious  example. 
*  Let  there  be  light  und  there  wass  light !  Let 
the  earth  bring  forth  herb  und  so  forth,  und  it 
wass  so.'  Und  the  efil  of  that  immediateness, 
the  perniciousness  of  that  teaching  iss  that 
people  who  hear  that  minister  will  haf  a  garden 
like  that.  They  know  nothing  of  the  slow  pre- 
paration und  development.  Let  there  be  a 
garden  und  it  wass  a  garden!" 

"Yes,  yes,"  assented  Mr.  Worthington  hast- 
ily, "but  there  is  the  demand  and  to  a  certain 
extent  we  must  meet  it.  The  Arabian  idea  of 
the  twelfth  century  setting  hollow  posts  and 
planting  roses  in  the  tops,  thus  getting  the  effect 
of  an  enormous  rose-tree  the  first  season,  was 
nothing  else  than  an  attempt  to  meet  the  de- 
mandf  or  immediate  effect !  I  have  thought  of  do- 
ing something  of  the  kind  at  Roseberry  Gardens. 


196  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

How  are  the  magnolias,  Michael — those  in  bas- 
kets— can  you  move  them  better?" 

"Ye  can  move  them  like  a  sound  asleep  baby. 
They  niver  know  they're  out  of  the  nurs'ry 
until  they  wake  up  in  another  place." 

"They  will  be  a  boon  to  the  folks  who  can- 
not wait." 

"It  iss  a  wrong  demand,"  asserted  Trommel, 
"und  a  wrong  demand  should  not  be  met." 

The  old  gentleman  smiled  tolerantly. 

"It  is  the  demand  of  ignorance,"  reiterated 
Trommel. 

"Sure,  Mr.  Trommel,"  said  Michael  gayly, 
"if  every  one  knew  as  much  as  you  and  me  and 
Mr.  Worthington,  where  would  be  Roseb'ry 
Gardens?  Then  every  one  would  know  enough 
to  grow  their  own;  they'd  grow  their  own  roses, 
an'  if  they  had  patience  enough  they'd  grow 
their  own  trees.  Don't  ask  f'r  intelligence; 
ask  only  f'r  the  price  to  pay  an'  the  sinse  to 
come  here  an'  buy." 

"Michael,  you  are  incorrigible!"  said  Horace 
Worthington." 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN 

WHATEVER  has  become  av  my  little 
man?"  Michael  would  say  to  him- 
self as  one  hack  after  another  drove 
up  to  the  dingy  little  office. 

This  was  Monday. 

Tuesday  came,  and  no  Maurice  Herford. 

Then  came  a  day  of  rain,  a  fine,  misty  Novem- 
ber rain  that  refreshed  the  evergreens,  made  them 
glisten,  and  brought  out  those  delicate  odours 
of  leaf,  stem,  and  turf  that  the  sun  dispels. 
In  the  faint  mist  and  rain  the  broad  grass  paths, 
overhung  by  dripping,  gleaming  branches,  made 
the  place  look  more  than  ever  like  an  English 
garden. 

Most  of  the  workmen  were  indoors  at  work 
or  had  stayed  at  home.  Trommel,  however, 
careless  of  rheumatism  (like  the  elderly  Troll 
he  was),  went  about  between  the  rows  of  plants, 
stooping  to  cut  here  and  there.  He  was  getting 
grafts  from  the  rhododendrons. 

197 


198  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

For  Roberta,  a  rainy  day  was  always  a  day  of 
liberty.  There  would  be  few  visitors,  for  one 
thing.  It  is  a  bold  and  constant  plant-lover 
who  will  choose  a  rainy  day  for  garden  re- 
connoitring. Passionate  garden-lovers  are  usu- 
ally middle-aged  at  least,  and  middle-age  thinks 
of  rubbers  and  rheumatism  and  other  prosaic 
things,  even  when  the  love  for  the  garden  is 
passionate.  For  this  reason,  perhaps,  Mr.  Worth- 
ington  would  not  be  out.  He  would  stay  by 
his  fire  and  read  Evelyn  or  Repton.  Mean- 
while his  secretary  could  do  as  she  chose.  What 
she  chose  was  usually  a  happy  and  umbrellaless 
tour  of  the  gardens. 

Not  that  Mr.  Worthington  would  have  ob- 
jected to  such  use  of  time — there  was  quite 
enough  overtime  work  done  in  rush  hours  to 
compensate — but  he  would  have  been  genuinely 
distressed  at  the  exposure,  as  he  would  have 
called  it,  and  would  have  predicted  bronchitis  and 
kindred  ills.  Intellectually,  Horace  Worthing- 
ton was  modern,  even  in  his  attitude  toward 
women,  but  by  temperament  and  tradition  he 
could  not  help  considering  them  hothouse  plants, 
after  the  manner  of  the  last  century,  beings  to 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN  199 

be  shielded  theoretically  from  all  ills,  practically 
from  such  lesser  ones  as  inclement  weather. 

Roberta  walked  rapidly  down  to  the  End  En- 
tirely, then  along  the  path  at  the  edge  of  the 
woods — young  oak  on  one  hand  and  the  dogwood 
plantation  on  the  other. 

Her  soft  hat  shed  the  rain  like  a  sou'wester, 
and  the  low  branches  brushed  her  coat.  She 
was  very  happy. 

The  scarlet  fruit  on  the  barberries  was  redder 
than  ever,  gleaming  from  the  wet,  and  the  red 
hips  on  the  rugosa  roses  shone  vividly  against 
the  dark  stiff  brown  branches.  The  sea-buck- 
thorn was  gorgeous  in  orange;  the  blue  of  the 
spruce  bluer  than  ever  in  the  dampness.  People 
who  know  shrubs  in  their  brief  season  of  blos- 
soming, and  trees  only  in  the  summer,  have  as 
vague  and  imperfect  an  acquaintance  with 
them  as  some  good  folk  have  with  children 
when  their  knowledge  is  limited  to  the  appear- 
ance of  the  youngsters  in  a  Sunday-school  class. 
Plants  are  different,  more  vital,  more  them- 
selves when  not  on  parade. 

In  the  very  early  morning,  or  at  nightfall,  or 
in  a  rain,  the  woods  have  a  life  of  their  own. 


200  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

It  is  then  that  their  real  lovers  like  to  be  among 
them,  then  if  ever  one  can  forget  civilization  and 
go  back  to  a  happy  paganism.  If  you  like  you 
may  come  and  look  on,  but  they  are  quite  in- 
different whether  you  go  or  stay — they  have  far 
more  important  concerns  than  humankind! 

Roseberry  Gardens  in  winter  offered  such 
attractions  that  bird  tenants  came  from  miles 
around.  "Here  were  acres  and  acres,"  they 
told  each  other,  "where  were  houses  in  which 
people  had  no  cats,  and  no  guns;  here  were  close 
deep  hedges  of  hemlock  that  kept  out  the  snow 
and  made  a  house  as  dry  and  warm  as  a  wood- 
pecker's; here  were  big  rhododendrons  whose 
leathery  leaves  made  the  stoutest  sort  of  can- 
opy. One  could  nest  in  the  biggest  and  finest. 
And  then  the  table!"  Not  here  and  there  a 
single  little  bush,  but  rows  on  rows  of  the  choic- 
est berries — a  veritable  market-display — white 
pointed  mulberries  which  any  bird  would  travel 
twenty  miles  to  taste;  berries  from  every  clime 
and  country:  Russia,  Japan,  China;  berries 
from  the  Himalayas  and  the  Amoor  River; 
viburnums  and  elderberries,  lonicera,  callicarpa, 
every  sort  of  barberry — the  small  ivory  berries 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN  201 

of  the  white  pointed  dogwood — these  were  the 
most  delicious  fare;  Japanese  apples,  no  bigger 
than  the  hips  of  rugosa  roses  and  really  excel- 
lent eating  when  the  choicest  fruits  were  gone. 
There  was  always  plenty  at  Roseberry  Gardens! 
"Besides,"  said  the  birds,  "there  is  a  queer 
old  fellow  with  a  thick  bushy  beard  who  puts 
suet  for  us  outside  the  doors  of  those  long 
funny  white  houses,  where  if  you  look  in  through 
the  top  you'd  think  you  were  in  the  tropics,  ex- 
cept that  they  do  not  let  one  in ! " 

What  wonder  that  year  after  year  the  birds 
were  there.  Here  might  one  see  the  rose- 
breasted  grosbeak,  pale  gray  underneath,  with  a 
shield  like  a  brilliant  rose  petal  laid  on  his  breast, 
a  cousin  to  the  Southern  cardinal.  Here  the 
scarlet  tanager  lingers  a  little  on  his  way  south, 
and  the  robins  delay  their  going.  Here  the 
blue- jay  scolds  and  orders  the  other  feathered 
folk  about,  while  snowbirds,  nuthatches  and 
all  other  small  courageous  little  fellows,  unafraid 
of  Boreas,  find  in  Roseberry  Gardens  a  veritable 
Paradise. 

Therefore,  on  a  rainy  day  in  November, 
within  the  hemlock  hedge  was  no  small  amount 


202  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

of  cheeping  and  twittering.  The  tenants  were 
selecting  their  winter  quarters,  and  choosing 
their  perches,  discussing  the  matter  at  great 
length.  The  tiniest  bird  can  have  as  definite 
an  opinion  as  a  turkey  buzzard  and  hold  it 
more  tenaciously,  while  a  humming-bird  can 
be  as  angry  as  a  great  horned  owl. 

In  the  hemlock  hedge  were  chickadees,  evi- 
dently considering  it  for  winter  quarters,  who  had 
come  around  to  see  how  their  roof  acted  in  a  rain. 

Roberta,  as  she  walked  along,  stopped  again 
and  again,  peeping  into  the  hedge  to  see  who 
might  be  there. 

She  stopped  to  listen  to  a  yellow-hammer 
high  up  in  one  of  the  oaks.  His  was  an  apart- 
ment that  could  defy  any  sort  of  weather  as  well 
as  that  of  the  squirrel  who  lived  below. 

The  rain  brought  the  fresh  colour  into  the 
girl's  face,  made  her  hair  curl  in  little  tendrils 
around  her  forehead,  and  the  light  made  it 
redder  than  ever. 

At  last  she  went  back  to  the  buildings,  left 
her  dripping  coat  and  hat  in  the  furnace-room 
in  the  last  of  the  greenhouses,  and,  turning  into 
the  dim  packing  shed,  met  Michael. 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN  203 

"Could  ye  do  somethin,  f'r  me?"  he  asked. 
"Ye'll  not  be  afther  workin'  in  the  office  to- 
day?" 

"Sure  and  I  could,  Michael.  Do  you  want 
some  orders  taken  out,  and  will  some  of  the 
men  dig  in  the  rain?" 

"'Tis  not  that,"  said  Michael;  "but  will  ye 
pot  up  some  seedlings  f'r  me?  I  want  the 
benches  in  the  second  house  clear  f'r  some  new 
cuttings." 

"Indeed,  I'd  love  to,  Michael;  lead  me  to 
them!" 

They  went  together  to  his  potting  bench  and 
Michael  brought  her  some  "flats" — shallow, 
square  wooden  boxes  full  of  tiny  seedlings,  a 
goodly  supply  of  "thumb"  pots.  She  was  to 
be  undisturbed  in  his  corner  of  the  greenhouse — 
mistress  of  the  wide  potting  bench  with  its  pile 
of  soft,  rich,  velvety  soil,  delicious  to  the  fingers. 

Michael  ran  his  through  it  almost  caressingly, 
and  potted  a  half  dozen  of  the  infant  plants 
with  quick  skilful  fingers.  "I  wish  I  c'u'd  do  it 
all  the  afternoon!"  he  said,  "but  I've  other 
work.     I  thank  you  indeed,  Miss  Davenant." 

Roberta  worked  rapidly  and  deftly,  and  soon 


204  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

had  flat  after  flat  filled  with  the  tiny  pots  each 
with  its  small  tenant  upright,  exactly  in  the 
centre. 

She  had  been  working  about  twenty  minutes 
when  she  heard  Michael's  voice  in  the  adjoining 
greenhouse:  "I  think  ye  may  find  her  down 
by  me  pottin'  bench,  Mr.  Herford;  she  might 
be  there,"  he  said  doubtfully. 

Roberta  smiled.     One  could  not  help  being 

amused  at  Michael,  even  if  he She  lifted 

one  hand  from  the  fresh  brown  mould,  looked 
for  a  clean  spot  on  the  back  of  it,  and  with  that 
pushed  her  hair  back  from  her  eyes,  as  she 
turned  to  greet  Mr.  Herford. 

Evidently  Maurice  Herford  knew  the  ways  of 
Roseberry  Gardens  and  the  worth  of  a  rainy 
day. 

He  had  orchids  with  him,  rarely  beautiful 
ones,  growing  in  their  small  wooden  cages. 

"I  thought  these  would  interest  you,"  he 
said,  his  grave  dark  eyes  lighting  as  he  saw  the 
quick  pleasure  in  the  girl's  face. 

Maurice  Herford  knew  how  to  give  one  things 
that  one  wanted,  she  thought. 

"Just  a  minute!"  said  Roberta.     She  went 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN  205 

to  the  great  tub  where  the  pots  were  soaking, 
dipped  her  earth-stained  hands  therein,  and 
turned  on  the  faucet  over  them,  pulled  a  hand- 
kerchief from  her  pocket  and  rubbed  them  dry. 

Maurice  Herford  glanced  at  them  critically. 
They  were  slim  and  brown,  but  muscular. 

"Now  let  me  take  it!"  she  said,  and  lifting 
the  small  square  wooden  box  in  her  hand  she 
touched  the  exquisite  petals  delicately  with  the 
tip  of  her  finger. 

"  How  very  lovely !  I  am  so  glad  you  brought 
it  this  way!  We'll  take  the  best  of  care  of 
them." 

Maurice  Herford  was  curiously  happy  at 
Roseberry  Gardens.  He  felt  as  one  does  in 
fairy  tales  when  he  drops  into  Elfland  or  some 
other  wonderful  clime  and  is  diminished  sud- 
denly to  the  height  of  a  three-inch  flower-pot 
with  a  privet  cutting  for  truncheon;  is  able 
to  swing  on  lily-bells;  or  one  finds  one's  self 
riding  a  winged  horse,  or  floating  over  the  tree- 
tops  with  the  ease  of  a  ball  of  dandelion  fluff — 
perfectly  at  home,  perfectly  happy,  only  a  trifle 
surprised — that's  all! 

Herford  felt  himself  quite  another  person — 


206  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

in  fact,  he  was.  The  Maurice  Herford  that 
Michael  knew  was  one  that  none  of  his  business 
associates  and  few  of  his  friends  in  the  outer 
world  would  have  recognized. 

He  looked  at  the  rooted  cuttings  and  the 
array  of  little  pots.  "I  can  do  that,"  he  said. 
So  he  hung  his  hat  beside  Michael's  battered 
felt,  took  Michael's  gardening  apron  down  from 
its  peg  (for  that  was  part  of  the  transformation), 
and  was  presently  at  work,  setting  each  small 
plant  in  its  pot,  pressing  the  earth  about  it  with 
fingers  almost  as  deft  as  Michael's  own.  His 
reserve  was  gone,  and  he  chatted  with  a  happy, 
boyish  gayety  that  seemed  to  belong  to  the 
blue  denim  apron  and  with  having  his  hat  hung 
beside  Michael's  on  the  peg. 

He  told  Roberta  of  the  greenhouse  he  was 
building,  of  the  winter  garden  he  had  planned 
which  would  be  a  terrace  in  summer  and  en- 
closed with  glass  in  winter.  He  smoothed  a 
miniature  terrace  in  the  pile  of  soil  beside  him 
and  set  in  the  tiny  plants  to  show  where  the 
azaleas  should  go.  There  would  be  camellias 
and  other  half-hardy  plants — not  in  pots,  but 
set  in  the  ground.    The  glass  in  winter  would 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN  207 

give  just  enough  protection.  On  mild  days 
everything  would  be  open  and  the  plants  would 
think  they  were  in  Italy ! 

So  engrossed  was  Mr.  Herford  in  his  change 
of  occupation  that  the  early  dusk  of  November 
had  fallen  before  he  was  aware  of  it  and  his 
carriage  was  gone. 

That  was  Michael's  carelessness.  He  should 
have  sent  the  man  to  the  stables  to  wait. 

"  'Tis  a  shame,"  he  said  regretfully,  "but 
Peregrine  can  drive  ye  in  whin  he  takes  Miss 
Davenant." 

Later  he  watched  them  drive  off. 

"'Tis  a  pity  he's  not  a  bit  of  Irish  in  him," 
he  said.  "I'm  not  savin'  'twould  make  him 
betther,  but  'twould  save  him  lots  of  time." 


CHAPTER  TWENTY 

MISS  ADELAIDE  DAVENANT  was 
concerned  about  no  such  trifles  as 
whether  folk  would  plant  or  would 
not  plant  at  the  proper  time,  nor  with  Michael 
O'Connor's  problem  of  why  Mr.  Maurice  J.  Her- 
ford  had  ceased  his  bi-weekly  visits  to  the  Gar- 
dens. Her  problems  were  of  far  more  moment 
and  occupied  all  her  waking  hours. 

Should  she  turn  her  black  silk  and  have  it 
made  over,  or  should  she  buy  a  new  one?  Did 
one  need  a  winter  bonnet  in  the  South  or  should 
one  take  only  the  straw  one? 

There  was  no  one  in  Meadowport  whom  she 
could  ask,  none  who  would  know,  except  Major 
Pomerane,  and  it  would  be  impossible  to  ask 
him  about  a  detail  of  one's  toilette ! 

Then,  too,  Miss  Adelaide  was  concerned  as  to 
whether  or  not  she  ought  to  have  accepted  the 
invitation.  She  did  not  know  Colonel  Carlton 
Fielding  at  all !     Paul  had  made  himself  so  com- 

208 


CHAPTER  TWENTY  209 

pletely  at  home  in  her  house,  had  seemed  so  like 
a  nephew  of  her  own,  whom  she  might  have 
known  from  babyhood,  that  she  had  forgotten 
how  brief  was  the  actual  acquaintance.  But 
his  mother  had  been  a  Dalrymple;  that  was  reas- 
suring, and  Cononel  Fielding's  sister  Clarissa 
(from  whom  Miss  Davenant  had  also  received 
word)  had  been  a  friend  of  Roberta's  mother. 

In  fact,  the  trouble  with  the  good  lady  was 
that  her  spontaneous  acceptance  was  out  of  her 
usual  character  and,  now  that  she  was  com- 
mitted, the  rest  of  her  nature  protested.  The 
eagerness  of  age  had  led  her  astray. 

People  speak  of  the  eagerness  of  youth,  but 
the  eagerness  of  youth  is  nothing  to  the  eager- 
ness of  age — a  secluded  and  uneventful  age, 
which  lives  over  and  over  past  enjoyments, 
and  anticipates,  to  a  degree  of  which  youth 
knows  little,  the  slightest  of  coming  pleasures. 
An  expedition  to  the  Antarctic  would  hardly 
seem  to  require  more  thoughtful  preparation. 

Disturbed  in  her  usual  routine,  Miss  Ade- 
laide began  going  into  the  garden  far  more  than 
had  been  her  wont.  Late  in  the  morning,  when 
the   slow   November   sunshine   had   mellowed 


210  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

the  air  a  bit,  she  would  go  down  the  long  path, 
a  little  worsted  shoulder  cape  drawn  closely 
over  her  shoulders,  and  busy  herself  in  the 
borders  cutting  down  the  dead  stalks  of  phlox 
or  larkspur. 

Roberta  was  too  busy  to  attend  to  their  own 
garden  properly,  she  would  explain  to  the 
Major,  who,  on  the  other  side  of  the  fence,  was 
busy  protecting  his  roses.  The  truth  was  that 
Miss  Adelaide  found  the  Major  consoling. 

"You'll  have  the  time  of  your  life,  Adelaide," 
said  he.  "You'll  be  ready  to  play  marbles  with 
me  as  you  did  forty  years  ago,  when  you  come 
back.  The  Fountain  of  Youth  is  down  that 
way,  you  know!" 

"Is  it  so  long  ago?"  said  Miss  Davenant. 

"Fact,  my  dear  lady,  but  it  seems  like  yester- 
day.    You  didn't  play  so  badly." 

"I  won  a  reel  of  yours — a  blue  one.  I  have 
it  in  my  button-bag,"  said  Miss  Adelaide 
complacently. 

"Then  I'll  win  it  back.  I  may  go  down  my- 
self. They're  dear  people.  The  boy  is  nice, 
but  I  haven't  seen  Carl  Fielding  for  fifteen 
years;  I  sure  would  like  to.     Best  shot  in  the 


CHAPTER  TWENTY  211 

county,  and  what  he  doesn't  know  about  horses 
isn't  worth  anybody's  remembering!  He  can 
take  the  cussedest  brute  and  turn  him  into  a 
mount  for  a  fidgety  woman.  You  ought  to  see 
the  old  race- track  down  there!  That  was  in 
his  grandfather's  time.  Some  of  the  finest 
hunters  in  the  state  have  been  bred  at  Paradise 
Park."  The  Major  grew  enthusiastic  and  for- 
got his  audience.  "There  was  Jim  Dandy  and 
Scorpion  that  won  the  stakes  at  Charleston  in 
'79 " 

"A  medal?"  asked  Miss  Adelaide  politely. 

"Er — yes — a  sort  of  medal — general  excel- 
lence, you  know.  Poor  old  Paradise!  There's 
been  none  of  that  for  years.  But  you'll  have  a 
fine  time  and  do  them  a  world  of  good.  Fine 
thing  for  the  little  girl,  too.  You  don't  want 
her  to  get  rooted  there  in  Roseberry  Gardens. 
It  is  all  very  well  for  you  and  me  to  be  planted 
in  our  places,  but  young  things — even  those 
old  fossils  out  there  will  tell  you  that — young 
things  should  have  frequent  transplanting.  Now 
with  you  and  me,  Adelaide,  it's  different.  Takes 
quite  a  bit  of  root  pruning  before  we  are  dis- 
lodged." 


212  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

And  then,  although  she  had  not  settled  the 
question  of  the  toilette,  Miss  Adelaide  would  go 
back  to  the  house  oddly  reassured. 

Major  Pomerane  found  it  pleasant,  those 
frosty  November  mornings,  to  ride  through 
Roseberry  Gardens.  He  would  stop  and  ex- 
change a  word  with  old  Rudolph,  who  had  very 
few  words  to  spare,  leave  his  horse  in  the  stables 
by  Washington's  little  house,  and  then  go  down 
to  the  office  and  warm  his  fingers  at  Mr.  Worth- 
ington's  grate  fire.  He  displayed  an  unusual 
interest  in  the  Gardens:  talked  with  Horace 
Worthington  on  all  his  pet  subjects,  till  the 
old  gentleman,  glad  of  a  sympathetic  listener, 
would  grow  eloquent. 

"If  ever  we  are  to  have  a  distinctive  garden- 
craft,  Major,"  he  would  say,  "the  keynote  of  it 
will  be  variety.  Variety!  Not  a  heterogene- 
ous assemblage  of  diverse  and  discordant  plants 
— by  no  means!  But  a  skilful  and  exquisite 
blending.  Variety  and  swiftness!  We  are  not 
fast  enough!" 

"What? "    The  Major  looked  amused. 

"Not  fast  enough,"  the  old  gentleman  re- 
peated; "we  do  not  keep  pace  with  Nature. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY  213 

We  have  a  wonderful  spring,  and  in  the  gardens 
exquisite  and  subtle  changes  should  follow  each 
other  with  a  marvellous  celerity.  Browning  has 
the  idea — rapidity,  swiftness: 

"Blue  ran  the  flash  across 
Violets  were  born. 

"Only,  the  'bank  of  moss'  need  not  have  been 
'starved,'"  he  added  critically;  "something 
might  have  been  in  bloom  before — crocus, 
perhaps,  or  if  nothing  else  there  is  always 
Vinca  minor.  Monotony,  sameness — they 
should  never  exist  in  this  country.  In  the 
summer  our  gardens  should  be  places  of  cool- 
ness, shade,  with  a  sense  of  quietness — the 
'green  thought  in  the  green  shade.'" 

"I  know,"  said  the  Major  hastily,  as  if  to 
head  off  further  quoting — "  'Rose-grot,  fringed 
pool,  and  the  rest!'" 

"Yes,  yes,"  assented  Horace  Worthington, 
"and  in  the  autumn  a  magnificence  of  colour, 
rich  and  wonderfully  varied;  no  country  can  rival 
us  in  this;  they  should  show  in  the  winter  com- 
fort, the  sense  of  protection — such  as  the  English 
garden  has — and  cheer.     A  man's  fancy  should 


214  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

have  free  rein;  then  we  should  have  charming 
little  gardens.  But  fancy  is  gone  from  us! 
Even  the  word,  in  its  old,  true  sense,  is  unused; 
it  has  lost  its  delicate  poetic  quality;  we  have,  as 
it  were,  'rung  Fancy's  knell.'" 

"To  be  sure,"  agreed  the  Major,  "fancy 
prices,  dry-and-fancy  goods,  fancy  butter  have 
done  it.  Poets  won't  use  the  word  any  more — 
have  to  think  up  another.  Probably  if  you 
asked  a  school  child  to 

"'Tell  me,  where  is  Fancy  bred? ' 

he'd  point  you  to  the  nearest  bakery.  I  can't 
tell  you  where  it's  bred  or  nourished,  but  I  can 
tell  you  where  it  isn't,  and  that's  in  the  suburbs. 
No  chance  for  fancy  to  run  riot  in  your  garden; 
when,  if  you  breakfast  on  your  porch,  your  next 
neighbour  knows  if  you  like  one  egg  or  two,  and 
if  you  have  muffins  or  toast  for  breakfast. 
Fancy  is  shy." 

"Everything  creative  is  shy,"  said  the  old 
gentleman. 

"To  be  sure!  A  hen  steals  her  nest  and  a 
poet  betakes  himself  to  a  garret.  Same  rea- 
son." 


CHAPTER  TWENTY  215 

"Perhaps,  but  the  spirit  of  adventure  is  gone 
from  us." 

"May  be  gone  from  Roseberry  Gardens, 
Horace,  but  it's  not  gone  from  the  town.  Ade- 
laide has  it — Adelaide  Davenant;  she's  going  gal- 
livanting for  the  first  time  in  her  life — off  to  Para- 
dise Park,  Fielding's  place  in  South  Carolina." 

"Ah,  indeed!  A  very  interesting  place — 
very  wonderful  old  camellias!  They  were  im- 
ported by  Andre  Michaux  in  1748,  and  are  still 
growing  luxuriantly." 

"There,  James!  There  is  a  hedge  plant  for 
the  South !  Imagine  the  elegance  of  a  hedge  of 
Camellia  japonica!  The  rich,  gleaming,  dark 
green  of  the  foliage;  and  then  in  January  the 
brilliant  colour!  What  a  setting  for  a  rose 
garden  in  an  estate  of  distinction — the  richness 
of  it!" 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  Major,  "to  be  sure! 
Fielding  wrote  me  something  about  them — says 
he  has  thousands — wants  to  make  them  a  bit 
useful.  Think  Roberta  knows  enough  to  look 
at  them  with  a  hard,  practical  eye?  She  might 
kill  two  birds  with  a  stone:  have  an  eye  on 
Adelaide  and  the  camellias  both." 


216  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

"Excellent  idea!"  said  the  old  gentleman 
warmly.    "I'll  speak  to  Trommel  about  it." 

It  was  easy  enough  to  find  old  Rudolph;  he 
went  on  his  way  serenely  indifferent  to  the 
bustle  of  the  fall  shipping,  the  piles  of  trees 
and  shrubs  that  began  to  fill  the  packing  shed 
and  more  than  ever  make  it  feel  like  Christ- 
mas. He  made  his  way  around  the  piles,  that 
was  all. 

"We  need  neither  clock  nor  calendar  about 
Roseb'ry  Gardens,"  said  Michael,  "if  you  keep 
your  eyes  open.  Ye  can  set  yer  watch  anny 
morning  by  Peregrine  and  know  'tis  fifteen  min- 
utes late,  and  ye  can  tell  the  day  av  the  month 
by  watchin'  to  see  what  Trommel's  doin'! 
Ye  may  be  runnin'  yer  legs  off  wid  gettin'  away 
the  Christmas  evergreens.  Niver  a  bit  does  it 
bother  him.  The  ninth  day  av  December  in 
the  mornin'  ye'll  find  him  out  cutting  rhody- 
dendrons'  grafts.  'Tis  all  one  to  him  whether 
we  sell  much  or  little,  an'  'tis  all  I  can  do  to 
keep  him  fr'm  going  over  the  plants  in  the 
packing  shed,  and  taking  off  likely  grafts. 
Ye'd  think  we  were  maintainin'  a  Bureau  of 
Dindrology,    ye   w'u'd,   himself   at   the   head 


CHAPTER  TWENTY  217 

of  it,  to  prevent  annything  from  leaving  the 
place." 

Mr.  Worthington  found  Trommel  in  the 
greenhouse  bending  over  his  baby  rhododen- 
drons. But  old  Rudolph  was  non-committal. 
"I  think  nothing  until  I  haf  tried  them,"  he 
answered  succinctly  to  Mr.  Worthington's  ques- 
tion. 

"You  would  be  willing  to  try  them? " 

"Assuredly.  What  would  I  not  try  once  or 
twice?  But  pot-grown  iss  always  better  if  the 
plant  iss  to  be  pot-grown.  To  be  born  in 
civilization  iss  better  for  a  child  if  he  iss  to 
grow  up  in  civilization.  How  easy  those  ca- 
mellias would  adapt  themselfs,  I  do  not  know. 
Perhaps  a  year  to  grow  into  stocks,  and  then 
the  grafting." 

"Do  you  think  Miss  Davenant  could  tell  a 
stock?" 

"She  could  tell  one  that  wass  straight  from  one 
that  wass  not  straight,"  he  admitted;  "that  iss 
something.  How  they  would  serve  as  stocks, 
no  one  could  tell  until  after  they  had  been 
grown  perhaps  three  years,  und  then  compared 
with  plants  grown  on  other  stock.     It  iss  impor- 


218  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

tant  that  they  are  properly  packed  und  dug. 
She  could  direct  that." 


As  the  holidays  drew  near,  more  and  more 
did  the  place  smell  like  Christmas.  Great 
loads  of  scarlet-berried  ardisias  went  to  town, 
and  the  shed  was  filled  with  piles  of  little  ever- 
greens— Japanese  conifers,  gay  in  green  and 
gold;  junipers  tinged  with  blue  or  a  rusty  red, 
as  stiffly  upright  as  soldiers  on  parade.  In- 
stead of  being  shut  up  in  boxes  with  only  breath- 
ing holes  for  air,  these  went  to  the  city  florists 
on  trucks  that  looked  like  transports  laden  with 
stout  little  green  soldiers.  Michael,  in  the 
bustle  and  rush  of  the  shipping,  was  radiantly 
happy. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  them  off,"  he  said  to  Roberta, 
looking  after  a  load  of  the  little  evergreens. 
"'Tis  for  window-boxes  they  are,  and  they  bring 
good  luck  to  the  house.  No  evergreens  about 
the  house  at  Michaelmas  and  there's  no  place 
f'r  the  Little  People  to  hide  thimselves  and 
watch  th'  fun.  They'll  be  round  the  house, 
come  Christmas,  trying  to  get  in.  Ye  should 
make  thim  welcome!" 


CHAPTER  TWENTY  219 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  believe  in 
fairies,  Michael!"  exclaimed  Roberta. 

"An*  wherefore  not?  Am  I  not  Irish,  can  I 
not  speak  the  Gaelic,  an'  am  I  not  from  Kerry? 
Sure,  and  Mr.  Trommel  believes  in  things  far 
more  taxing  to  the  head  than  thim!  But 
they've  a  har-rd  time  now  about  the  gardens! 
People  have  disbelieved  in  thim  so  long  they 
can't  do  their  wor-rk  (and  I  don't  wonder  at  it) ; 
that's  why  we  have  to  use  Bordeaux  an'  all  the 
other  ill-smelling,  bug-killing  mixtures;  the 
Little  People  have  abandoned  us  to  our  fate. 
They  only  come  around  a  bit  come  Christmas 
f'r  the  sake  of  old  times!" 

Roberta  laughed.  "Where's  Mr.  Trommel? 
Whist !  Listen ! "  A  stream  of  forcible  German 
profanity  came  from  the  greenhouse. 

"  Would  you  listen  to  that ! "  exclaimed  Michael 
admiringly.  " '  Tis  the  boss  admonishing  Barney, 
and  niver  a  wor-rd  of  it  does  the  lad  understand. 
Wait  a  bit  and  ye'll  hear  him  end  his  malediction 
with  a  simple  admonition  in  the  King's  English, 
and  'tis  all  av  the  scoldin'  the  lad  comprehends!" 

Sure  enough,  after  the  fierce  invective,  came, 
"That  iss  not  quite  right,  Bernard." 


220  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

Michael  chuckled.  "When  I  hear  the  boss  I 
wish  I  had  larnin'  mesilf,  but  all  I  have  is 
botanical  names,  and  they're  no  use  f 'r  purposes 
of  profanity.  But  whin  I  see  Barney  as  serene 
and  untroubled  as  a  summer  mornin',  'tis  then 
I  think  that  ignorance  is  foiner!" 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE 

THE  little  launch  pushed  steadily  up 
the  river  chugging  in  a  business-like 
active  way  although  its  course  was 
like  that  of  Coleridge  on  a  path — Coleridge 
who,  a  friend  said,  was  so  undecided  that  he 
would  go  first  from  one  side  of  the  path  to  the 
other  as  if  he  never  could  make  up  his  mind 
where  he  wanted  to  walk.  Back  and  forth, 
now  to  one  side  now  to  the  other  of  the  quiet 
river,  went  the  energetic  little  craft — for  the 
channel  was  narrow,  and  turned  and  twisted 
like  a  water-snake. 

The  river  was  quietness  itself  now,  shadowed 
by  the  great  liveoaks  to  which  the  slow  current 
pushed  so  close  that  the  launch  following  the 
channel  was  shaded  by  the  huge  branches.  On 
the  other  side  would  be  a  sunny  stretch  of 
marsh. 

Occasionally  a  heron  rose  slowly,  flapped  her 
wings  and  flew  away  with  a  harsh  scream,  angry 
221 


222  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

at  being  disturbed.  The  river  was  of  much  the 
same  aspect  as  in  the  days  when  the  Indian's 
canoe  slipped  silently  down  it,  the  paddle  mak- 
ing hardly  more  stir  than  the  dip  of  a  gull's 
wing.  In  Colonial  days  it  presented  a  livelier 
aspect,  being  the  recognized  thoroughfare,  since 
road  travel  was  by  no  means  easy. 

Then,  up  and  down,  between  the  city  and  the 
great  country  places,  went  boats  laden  with 
supplies,  manned  by  gayly  clad  negroes  whose 
oars  kept  time  to  their  melodies. 

There  were  five  people  in  the  boat.  The 
young  fellow  at  the  wheel,  intent  on  the  varying 
channel,  his  cap  off  and  hair  blown  back,  that 
was  young  Mr.  Fielding.  Beside  him  sat  Miss 
Davenant,  Miss  Adelaide  Davenant,  looking 
more  animated  than  Paul  had  ever  seen  her, 
the  walnut  furniture  aspect  quite  vanished  and 
a  little  faint  colour  in  her  cheeks.  This  mode  of 
travel  was  novel  and  exhilarating.  Next  her 
sat  a  little  lady  in  black,  a  slight,  bent  figure 
and  a  delicate  eager  face,  a  profile  enough  like 
Paul's  to  make  one  guess  at  relationship.  Like 
Miss  Davenant  she  was  a  bit  old-fashioned  as 
to  dress,  and  her  only  adornment  was  a  cameo 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE  223 

brooch  that  must  have  dated  back  fifty  years. 
That  was  Paul's  aunt,  Mrs.  Jacques  Carleton, 
born  Clarissa  Fielding. 

The  middle-aged  man,  thin  and  bronzed,  with 
the  fine  head  and  prematurely  white  hair,  a 
green  bag,  such  as  lawyers  carry,  on  his  knees — 
that  was  Colonel  Fielding,  and  the  young  girl 
with  whom  he  was  talking,  apparently  with 
great  interest,  was  no  other  than  the  young 
secretary  of  Roseberry  Gardens. 

Colonel  Fielding  and  his  son  had  met  their 
guests  in  the  city,  and  having  sent  the  baggage 
by  train  to  the  nearest  point,  were  taking  them 
out  to  Paradise  Park  by  what  Colonel  Fielding 
considered  the  only  proper  way. 

The  Colonel  was  happy,  boyishly  happy,  as 
he  always  was  when  his  face  was  turned  toward 
the  old  place.  He  had  taken  off  his  hat  and  the 
wind  ruffled  his  white  hair.  He  was  talking  to 
Miss  Roberta,  telling  her  of  the  places  they 
passed,  to  whom  belonged  this  and  that  of  the 
manor  houses  of  which  they  caught  glimpses 
through  the  trees.  This  was  Sunny mede  they 
were  passing;  that  was  Carleton  Hall — the  red 
brick — one  could  see  the  window  through  which 


224  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

Francis  Marion  jumped  to  escape  capture  by 
the  British. 

"The  loveliest  of  the  places  you  can't  see 
from  here:  Broadacres,  the  old  Anthony  Des- 
mond Place  on  the  Goosecreek,  but  that's  been 
bought  by  a  Northerner." 

It  was  as  if  Colonel  Fielding  had  said  "fallen 
into  the  hands  of  the  Philistines." 

"What  did  he  do  to  it?"  asked  Roberta. 

"His  name  is  Ryan,  James  B.  Ryan.  There's 
a  rose  garden  at  Broadacres  two  hundred  years 
old;  he  put  concrete  walks  in  it." 

The  sun  was  setting  when  the  launch  reached 
Paradise  Park.  A  turn  of  the  river  brought  it 
suddenly  into  view,  and  one  faced  squarely 
elaborate  terraces  that,  like  a  broad  stairway, 
descended  to  the  water,  making  the  river  at  that 
point  a  direct  avenue  of  approach.  The  house 
was  of  plaster,  brown,  and  many  gabled.  Two 
great  live-oaks  shadowed  it  from  the  riverside; 
they  and  the  house  had  stood  together  for  two 
hundred  years  and  more.  There  was  a  sombre- 
ness  about  the  house,  but  the  setting  sun 
touched  its  roof  and  turned  to  gold  the  tops  of 
the  tall  oaks  that  flanked  it. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE  225 

In  spite  of  the  stately  approach  it  was  a 
crazy  little  wharf  at  which  the  boat  made  fast. 
Miss  Adelaide  looked  dubiously  at  the  few 
planks  laid  across  piles  which  made  the  flooring, 
and  finally  took  the  chance  with  the  air  of 
Eliza  crossing  the  Ohio. 

Half  a  dozen  negroes,  big  and  little,  came 
down  to  greet  the  arrivals.  They  varied  in 
size  from  Calliope,  who  tipped  the  beam  at  two 
hundred,  to  her  small,  spidery-legged  grandson. 
Calliope  took  voluble  command  of  the  hand 
luggage  the  boat  had  brought,  parcelling  it  out 
according  to  strength  and  intelligence.  Thus 
attended,  the  little  party  took  their  way  to  the 
house. 

There  is  an  undeniable  nervousness  about  a 
new  country  house.  It  is  not  sure  of  itself.  Its 
furnishings  must  be  exact  or  the  house  is  plainly 
uncomfortable.  But  here  a  pile  of  saddles 
was  in  the  hall;  beautiful  old  furniture  associated 
cheerfully  with  new,  makeshift  pieces,  for  the 
house  was  too  sure  of  its  charm — the  charm  of 
proportion,  of  beautiful  staircases  and  doorways 
— to  be  concerned  about  trifles.  It  had  not  the 
slightest  touch  of  self -consciousness.     The  pine 


226  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

knots  blazed  happily  in  the  great  fireplace;  in 
fact,  the  old  house  was  evidently  glad  indeed 
to  have  its  people  back  and  was  doing  its  best 
to  welcome  them. 

From  the  distant  kitchen  came  the  sound  of 
Calliope  scolding  vociferously  some  of  her 
assistants.  Miss  Adelaide  found  herself  talk- 
ing with  Colonel  Fielding  and  his  sister  as  if  she 
had  always  known  them.  She  was  a  bit  sur- 
prised, but  she  liked  it.  She  liked  the  supper 
served  by  half  a  dozen  negroes  in  procession,  a 
tiny  grandson  bringing  up  the  rear,  bearing  a 
plate  of  hot  bread. 

At  heart  the  Northerner  is  much  the  same  as 
the  Southerner,  but  the  luckless  New  Eng- 
lander  has  self-consciousness  like  an  ill-fitting 
moral  corset  clasped  about  his  spirits  which 
prevents  his  courtesy  from  ever  being  spon- 
taneous and  graceful,  showing  the  warmth  of  the 
heart  beneath.  While  Miss  Adelaide  played 
cribbage  and  backgammon  with  Colonel  Field- 
ing with  much  content,  Paul  took  Roberta  over 
the  plantation,  also  well  content  with  his  occu- 
pation. He  showed  her  the  rice-fields  and  ex- 
plained the  work  in  the  dykes,  the  difficulty 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE  227 

and  irresponsibility  of  negro  labour.  He  showed 
her  the  cabins  where  the  men  lived  with  their 
families,  each  having  his  small  plot  of  ground, 
sometimes  a  cow  of  his  own.  Roberta  was  sur- 
prised to  see  a  young  bull  used  as  a  saddle  horse 
by  a  negro  lad. 

"Aren't  you  afraid?"  she  said  to  him. 

"Lawsy,  no!  I  keep  his  min'  so  occupied 
wid  ploughin'  an'  ridin'  'roun'  he  ain't  got  no 
time  to  git  rambunctious,"  was  the  answer. 

Paul,  when  talking  to  the  negroes  or  giving 
them  orders,  dropped  into  the  dialect  so  easily 
and  completely  that  Roberta  stared  in  amaze- 
ment, half  expecting  to  see  he  had  changed 
colour. 

"Won't  they  think  you're  making  fun?"  she 
said. 

"Oh,  no!    They  understand  one  better." 

They  came  where  the  woods  were  charred  and 
blackened  and  the  young  greens  making  a  pite- 
ous effort  to  repair  the  damage. 

"That's  the  sort  of  thing  we're  afraid  of," 
said  Paul. 

"How  did  it  happen?" 

Paul  smiled  whimsically. 


228  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

"  I  gave  Jake  a  harmonica.  It  started  near 
his  cabin,"  said  Paul;  "he  told  me  he  'dun  los' 
that  harmonica,  and  he  bu'n  de  patch  to  fin'  it.' 
Incidentally  the  woods  caught  fire  also — but  I 
believe  he  found  the  harmonica!" 

"And  what  will  you  do  to  Jake?"  asked 
Roberta. 

"Build  him  another  cabin,  I  reckon,"  he 
answered  patiently. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO 

THE  days  went  rapidly  at  Paradise  Park. 
Miss  Adelaide  thawed  in  the  warmth 
and  sunshine — thawed  visibly.  She 
conquered  her  fear  of  the  perilous  wharf  when 
bent  on  little  expeditions  with  Colonel  Fielding, 
his  sister,  and  one  or  another  of  the  kinsfolk  that 
in  the  South  are  always  accessible  for  such 
excursions.  The  easy  and  impromptu  merry- 
makings in  which  half  a  dozen  kinsfolk  joined 
would  in  New  England  have  necessitated  anx- 
ious thought  and  care  for  months.  They  sur- 
prised and  rather  charmed  Miss  Adelaide. 

Sometimes  with  Colonel  Fielding,  sometimes 
with  Paul  alone,  the  secretary  of  Roseberry 
Gardens  rode  over  mile  after  mile  of  plantation 
and  woodland.  Years  ago,  under  the  first 
Carleton  Fielding,  vistas  had  been  cut  through 
the  woods  as  in  the  forest  at  Fontainebleau. 

"It's  a  new  way  of  amusing  a  young  lady," 
said  Colonel  Fielding  to  Miss  Davenant,  "tak- 

229 


230  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

ing  her  around  to  view  drainage  systems  and 
swamps.  Now,  in  my  day  a  girl  would  sit 
on  the  piazza  in  a  muslin  frock  and  you'd  bring 
her  a  bouquet,  or  she'd  sit  at  the  piano  and 
sing." 

But  it  wasn't  all  ditches.  Twice  they  went 
'coon  hunting — mile  after  mile,  through  the 
dark  fragrant  woods  lit  uncertainly  by  torches 
carried  by  the  negro  lads,  that  flashed  on  the 
shining  leaves  of  young  liveoaks,  and  made  the 
tall  columnar  pine  boles  flame  to  a  dull  red  while 
in  the  underbrush  was  the  rustle  and  flash  of  the 
dogs  eager  and  wild  with  excitement. 

"Br'er  Coon  has  sho'  given  us  the  slip  this 
time,"  said  Meshach  regretfully.  "I  doan  see 
how  come  he  did,  but  he's  gone,  an'  de  dogs 
can't  find  him  nowhere." 

"Too  bad,"  said  Roberta,  but  she  was  glad 
at  heart  that  the  charm  of  the  night  might  stay 
unspoiled  by  the  memory  of  bloodshed. 

For  Roberta,  who  had  never  been  in  the  woods 
at  night,  was  delighted  with  the  charm  of  it  all — 
the  fragrance  of  Cherokee  roses  and  honey- 
suckle blent  with  the  tang  of  the  resinous  pine, 
the  uncertain  flare  of  the  torches,  that  made  an 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO  231 

eerie  fairyland  of  the  woods.    In  fact,  the  loss  of 
the  "coon"  meant  nothing  to  her. 

"I'm  not  sorry,"  she  said  to  Paul.  "We've 
had  the  fun,  and  Br'er  Coon  has  also!  Let's  go 
back." 

Young  Mr.  Fielding  had,  as  his  father  no- 
ticed, been  exceptionally  busy  the  past  three 
months.  He  had  gone  over  his  heritage  with  a 
new  eye,  as  if  he  were  a  homesteader  and  it 
was  just-opened  government  land.  He  had  the 
soil  tested,  and  studied  to  find  what  untried 
crops  might  possibly  thrive  in  that  climate. 
''For,"  said  he  to  himself,  "if  you  find  crops 
peculiarly  adapted  to  your  soil  and  climate  you 
save  competition  and  labour."  He  thought  of 
raising  Japanese  plums,  tea,  or  indigo  like  "little 
Eliza  Pinckney,"  of  planting  mulberry  trees  and 
raising  silkworms. 

He  turned  one  acre  into  experimental  plots, 
holding  that  the  only  way  to  assure  oneself  conclu- 
sively that  a  crop  will  or  will  not  grow  is  to  try  it. 
On  his  own  ground  Paul  became  vastly  more 
interesting  to  young  Miss  Davenant. 

"She  sees  it,  father!"  he  explained,  when  the 
Colonel  protested  against  ditch  inspection. 


232  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

"Of  course,  she  sees  it.  Any  one  with  eye- 
sight can.  It's  as  plain  as  a  'church  by  day- 
light.'" 

"I  mean  she  sees  what  I'm  driving  at,"  said 
Paul. 

And  she  did.  Although  at  first  the  charm  of 
the  gardens,  their  unlikeness  to  anything  she  had 
known,  poignant  beauty  of  the  past,  had  allured 
her,  and  had  spoken  so  insistently,  to  think 
of  the  task  before  the  lovely  old  acres  of  meet- 
ing the  exigencies  of  the  present  seemed  a  cruel 
dislocation.  Later  she  had  clearer  vision,  began 
to  see  how  the  place  could  meet  the  conditions 
and  meet  them  nobly.  She  began  to  see  what 
Paul  meant  to  do — to  keep  the  beautiful  lines 
of  the  old  gardens,  and  yet  make  them  commer- 
cially profitable,  to  restore  their  beauty  of  the 
beloved  acres,  to  keep  even  the  effect  of  a  stately 
pleasuance,  and  to  bring  back  the  old  air  of  well- 
being  and  prosperity.  The  undertaking  fas- 
cinated her. 

So  together  they  measured  the  old  parterre, 
ploughed  it,  leaving  a  grass  strip  where  a  path 
should  be,  and  marked  the  beds  which  were  to 
be  filled  with  camellias,  set  in  nursery  rows. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO  233 

Together  they  potted  hundreds  of  infant 
camellias  and  with  the  optimistic  arithmetic 
of  youth,  and  especially  youth  in  agriculture, 
they  reckoned  up  the  proceeds  of  hypothetical 
sales  which,  according  to  their  cheerful  reckon- 
ing, would  in  a  few  years  completely  clear  the 
plantation  of  its  entanglements.  They  made 
thousands  of  box  cuttings  from  the  old  hedges. 
That  was  on  two  rainy  days. 

"When  they're  in  bloom  it  will  be  as  gorgeous 
as  your  azaleas  at  Roseberry  Gardens.  And 
it  will  do  no  harm  to  sell.  There  will  be  a  new 
crop  next  year.  I  got  that  idea  at  Roseberry 
Gardens.  The  grass  path  will  make  it  a  garden 
— without  that  it  would  be  just  a  nursery. 

"You  understand  now  that  when  I  saw  it  I 
had  to  go  back.  I  couldn't  fool  any  more  time 
learning  to  be  a  landscape  architect  to  do 
for  other  people's  places,  after  some  years  of 
study,  what  this  old  place  was  fairly  crying  for. 
I  want  to  try  every  possible  market,"  he  said. 
"Another  year  we'll  have  profits,  Roberta, 
and  as  you  want  a  garden  business — come 
into  business  with  me!  We'll  have  greenhouses 
a-plenty  in    time!     Don't  they  fairly   'holler' 


234  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

to  you — all  those  little  plants  we've  set  out,  all 
those  little  camellias?  Don't  you  want  to  see 
my  parterre  when  it's  in  bloom,  as  full  of  colour 
as  a  tulip  bed  in  April?  Suppose  I  make  a 
business  proposition?" 

And  Miss  Davenant,  half  New  Englander 
that  she  was,  said  "she'd  see." 

And  then,  because  Paul  was  but  twenty-six 
and  Roberta  Davenant  barely  twenty,  they 
forgot  industry  and  went  horseback  riding 
through  mile  after  mile  of  the  level  fragrant 
pinewood,  following  the  merest  tracks  through 
the  thick  young  underbrush  so  tall  that  it 
brushed  Roberta's  skirt  and  caught  at  her  stir- 
rup. They  went  past  the  ruined  "quarters" 
beside  the  old  race  course,  now  a  barely  discern- 
ible bridle  path,  and  explored  the  old  landmarks. 

Because  for  necessary  lumber  Paul  planned  to 
take  out  the  trees  that,  in  accordance  with  the 
ancient  clearing,  were  superfluous  and  to  reopen 
the  "  Fontainebleau  vistas"  made  by  his  great- 
great-grandfather. 

They  spent  many  an  afternoon  in  the  spacious 
old  gardens :  the  four-square  rose  garden,  where 
huge  ancient  camellias  guarded  each  corner;  from 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO  235 

that  opened  a  sunken  octagonal  garden  and  the 
herb  garden;  the  flower  garden,  where  the  old- 
fashioned  posies  had  once  held  carnival.  There 
was  the  "river  walk"  which  curved  and  bent, 
now  this  way,  now  that,  following  the  stream's 
course,  overlooking  its  wide  sunlit  surface,  but 
shaded  by  giant  live-oaks  that  bent  their  huge 
boughs  over  the  water.  Far  more  formal  was 
the  Magnolia  Walk  that  marked  the  boundary 
of  the  gardens  and  ended  at  the  Long  Pond. 
Here  magnolias,  once  close  clipped,  grew 
straight  and  tall  on  either  side,  forming  a  walk 
of  gleaming  green  like  a  yew  walk  in  an  English 
garden.  The  long  pool  was  rectangular,  shaded 
by  tall  oaks  that  stood  back  from  it,  ranged  in 
a  row  at  a  decorous  distance;  and,  because  it 
lay  east  and  west,  it  was  radiant  in  the  morning 
sunlight  and  a  bit  sombre  toward  evening, 
when  the  long  shadows  lay  heavily  on  its  quiet 
surface.  At  the  other  end  of  the  magnolia  walk 
was  the  river  path  which,  when  the  two  met, 
bowed  to  a  semicircle;  here  were  seats  and  in 
the  centre  a  sundial. 

An  old  garden   seems  made  for  poets  and 
lovers  of  romance,  and  yet  these  are  made  by 


236  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

the  garden.  %  Whatever  of  poetry  or  romance 
there  is  in  a  man  an  old  garden  brings  it 
out  and  awakens  it.  Somewhat  of  the  beauty 
and  charm  there  was  in  the  human  life  of 
which  it  was  once  a  part  remains  in  the  garden. 
The  house,  long  unused,  may  feel  dead  and 
sombre,  but  in  the  garden  the  spirit  stays;  the 
belief  in  loveliness,  of  which  the  garden  was 
itself  an  expression,  lingers  in  the  neglected 
borders  and  overgrown  shrubbery.  The  appeal 
of  the  tiny  violets  and  the  fragrant  roses  is  as 
fresh  and  poignant  as  it  was  a  half  century  be- 
fore, when  their  first  blossoming  was  awaited 
eagerly  by  lovers  long  in  their  graves.  It  is 
the  imperishableness  of  this  earthly  loveliness, 
fragile  as  it  seems,  that  brings  suddenly  into 
being  a  dormant  belief  in  other  forms  of  loveli- 
ness; the  transitory,  perishable,  and  fleeting  be- 
come the  eternal  and  immortal.  That  is  what 
an  old  garden  does  to  one. 

Therefore  it  was  not  strange  that  day  after 
day  Paul  and  Roberta  fell  under  the  charm. 
There  came  a  day  of  golden  sunshine — the  two 
had  ridden  over  the  plantation  in  the  morning 
for  a  last  look,  for  Roberta  was  to  go  back  to 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO  237 

Roseberry  Gardens  in  two  days,  and  in  the  after- 
noon were  in  the  old  gardens.  They  had  walked 
along  the  river  path,  then  sat  on  the  curved 
seat  where  the  path  bowed  out  over  the  river. 
Overhead  a  giant  oak  stretched  its  branches. 
The  air  was  still,  there  was  no  ruffling  of  the 
water,  yet  far  above  them  the  moss  on  the  dark 
oak  branches  swayed  and  stirred. 

"Let's  sit  and  talk,"  Paul  had  said. 

But  it  was  the  garden  that  spoke  and  the  two 
young  human  things  that  listened. 

"  We  must  go  back,"  said  Roberta  at  last. 

"But  this  way,"  said  the  gardens. 

The  late  afternoon  sunshine  fell  along  the 
magnolia  walk,  touching  and  waking  to  vivid- 
ness now  a  spray  of  the  straggling  myrtle  at  the 
foot  of  the  wall  of  glossy  green,  now  tiny  pansies 
long  gone  back  to  wildness,  now  honeysuckle 
creeping  the  magnolia  branches — remnants  of 
the  old  border.  The  fragrance  of  the  honey- 
suckle came  to  them. 

Roberta  stooped  to  pick  a  tiny  pansy. 

When  she  stood  up  Paul  was  facing  her. 

Neither  knew  how  it  happened.  The  garden 
knew.    The  old  oaks  knew  perhaps,  the  silent, 


238   ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

vivid  wall  of  magnolia  may  have  been  something 
of  the  sort  before,  but  his  hands  held  hers,  his 
arms  were  around  her,  and  they  kissed  there  in 
the  silence  of  the  old  garden,  where  the  long  shad- 
ows lay  heavily. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-THREE 

NOW  Roberta  had  meant  to  do  nothing 
of  the  sort.  Late  that  evening  she 
stood  before  the  small  mirror  in  the 
quaint  room  allotted  to  her,  brush  in  hand. 
It  was  late,  so  late  that  the  old  house  was  silent, 
except  for  the  slow  ticking  of  the  clock  on  the 
stairs.  The  candle  on  the  bureau  flickered  and 
lightened  her  bright  hair.  It  was  a  high,  nar- 
row bureau,  of  beautifully  carved  mahogany; 
the  small  mirror  swung  between  two  carved  up- 
right pieces,  very  like  one  in  the  old  house  at 
home,  but  the  rest  of  the  room  was  strangely 
unlike:  the  smoke-blackened  fireplace,  the  low 
ceiling,  and  plastered  walls.  Instead  of  brush- 
ing her  hair,  Roberta  was  looking  at  a  face  that 
seemed  not  hers  in  the  glass,  curiously  and  with 
startled  disapproval. 

She  had  not  meant  to  let  Paul  Fielding  kiss 
her.  "But  you  did,"  said  Conscience,  "more- 
over, cheerfully,  easily,  and  I  believe  you  would 

239 


240   ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

again ! "  Conscience  was  a  New  Englander  and 
uncompromising. 

Roberta  was  doing  more  direct  thinking  than 
she  had  ever  done  in  her  life  before.  Life 
hitherto  had  seemed  made  up  of  things  to  be 
done,  and  education  a  matter  of  facts  to  be 
put  into  one's  head.  And  now,  instead  of  the 
slow,  orderly  procession  of  little  duties,  life 
had  become  a  canoe  in  a  swift  current  with  only 
her  own  skill  and  adroitness  to  guide  it.  She 
had  not  supposed  that  the  swift,  unthinking 
action  of  a  moment  could  so  change  the  face  of 
things,  pull  one's  life  this  way  or  that,  irrevo- 
cably. It  was  for  her  and  no  one  else  to  keep  a 
clear  head  and  give  her  life  intelligent  direction. 
"That  is  what  my  mind  is  for,"  thought  Ro- 
berta curiously. 

She  sat  by  the  window  of  the  queer  old  house, 
her  hair  braided  at  last,  and  looked  out  into  the 
night. 

Out  of  doors  was  flooded  with  moonlight. 
It  weaved  itself  in  and  out  among  the  huge 
dark  branches  of  the  great  oak  that  almost 
brushed  her  windows,  making  strange,  mysteri- 
ous shadows.     The  fragrant  breath  of  the  night 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-THREE  241 

came  in  at  the  window,  ruffled  the  girl's  night 
dress  and  the  strands  of  her  hair.  She  had  not 
meant  Paul  to  kiss  her.  "But  you  let  him," 
ticked  her  brain  relentlessly;  "you  would 
again."  Even  then,  in  the  shadowy  moonlight, 
it  seemed  to  her  that  again  his  lips  were  on  hers 
and  that  she  was  powerless  to  resist.  She  felt 
herself  and  Paul  also  curiously  a  part  of  the 
strange,  weird  beauty  without. 

Dame  Nature  is  an  old  enchantress.  She  can 
weave  spells  more  potent  than  ever  were  made 
about  a  witch's  cauldron — spells  composed  of 
moonlight  or  starlight,  of  woven  branches  and 
shadowy  boughs,  of  mystic  passes  of  clouds  over 
the  bright  moon's  face,  and  of  odours  which 
wake  the  mind  to  remembrance  or  lull  it  to 
sleep.  She  is  as  unconcerned  for  the  havoc  her 
magic  makes  as  was  Calypso  for  the  broken 
engagements  of  Ulysses  and  his  proper  duties 
in  Ithaca. 

But  the  evening  and  the  morning  differ  in 
more  ways  than  in  the  matter  of  light.  Morn- 
ing has  the  fresh,  clear  beauty  of  a  child — quite 
unlike  the  siren  loveliness  of  the  evening,  and 
that  is  why  wise  people  reserve  their  decisions 


242   ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

until  morning.  There  is  nothing  romantic  about 
eight  or  nine  o'clock.  Those  are  not  hours  for 
enchantment  but  for  disenchantment.  Poetry 
is  relegated  to  the  background.  Prose  unadul- 
terated reigns  at  breakfast  time. 

Nine  o'clock  the  following  morning  found 
Roberta  down  at  the  end  of  the  crazy  little  wharf, 
endeavouring  to  explain  her  position  to  young 
Mr.  Fielding  who  was  beside  her,  casting  hook 
and  line  into  the  river.  The  fish  were  fairly 
safe,  for  Mr.  Fielding's  attention  was  not  exclu- 
sively given  to  them.  In  fact,  for  a  good 
fisherman  he  was  casting  very  badly,  half  the 
time  out  into  the  sunshine  when  he  might  have 
seen  more  than  one  good  perch  had  he  glanced 
at  the  left  of  the  wharf,  where  the  shadows  lay. 

"Roberta,"  he  said,  "won't  you  look  at  me?" 

"I  have  to  watch  my  line." 

"Roberta!" 

"I  believe  I  have  one!" 

"Roberta!  I  have  loved  you  since  that  first 
May  morning." 

She  flushed  and  did  not  answer. 

"Roberta!" 

She  looked  at  him  suddenly,  directly,  with 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-THREE  243 

troubled  eyes.  "I'm  sorry,"  she  said;  "sorry 
and  ashamed,  too.  I  meant  nothing  yesterday 
— not  what  I  made  you  think.  Can't  we  forget 
it  all?" 

"I  shall  never  forget  as  long  as  I  live." 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  repeated.  "I  don't  know 
what  possessed  me.  It  must  have  been  the 
garden." 

"Then  let's  try  the  garden  again!"  said  Paul 
joyfully. 

She  shook  her  head  hastily. 

"Traid-cat!"  scoffed  young  Mr.  Fielding. 
"If  you  weren't  afraid  you'd  come.  It's  not 
I  you  are  afraid  of.  Is  it  yourself?  Are  you 
afraid  of  yourself,  Roberta?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  honestly.  "It 
troubles  me — the  whole  thing — I  don't  want  it 
— truly — at  least  not  now." 

A  bit  of  Cousin  Jim's  wisdom  floated  up  in 
Paul's  mind. 

"Dearest,"  he  said,  "never  mind!  Don't  let 
it  trouble  you,  whatever  happens  or  doesn't  hap- 
pen. I've  loved  you  for  half  a  year  or  more, 
and  it  hasn't  troubled  you.  I  shall  love  you  all 
my  life,   but  that  needn't  trouble  you  now. 


244  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

We'll  go  'back  to  the  land.'  You  shall  concern 
yourself  about  nothing  but  horticulture  and 
agriculture.  But,  Roberta,"  he  added  mischiev- 
ously, "you  know  that: 

"'My  heart  is  God's  little  garden/" 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FOUR 

WHILE  this  form  of  horticulture  was 
thriving  in  Paradise  Park,  at  Rose- 
berry  Gardens  things  were  going  on 
as  usual;  that  was  the  charm  of  the  place. 
You  might  be  away  for  ten  or  fifteen  years  and 
come  back  to  find  old  Trommel  sitting  at  the  end 
of  the  long  greenhouse  grafting  plants,  just  as  you 
had  left  him. 

Outside  the  snow  lay  heavily,  dusting  the 
big  spruces,  making  the  rhododendrons  "look 
sleepy,"  curling  their  leaves.  Little  green  and 
gold  Japanese  evergreens  stiffly  upright,  like 
soldiers  on  parade,  were  gay  in  colour  as  in  June. 
In  and  about  the  symphoricarpos  bushes,  the 
viburnums,  and  the  black  alders,  flitted  wrens 
and  chickadees  getting  their  winter  rations. 
Sometimes,  grown  bold  or  impatient,  they 
pecked  against  the  greenhouse  windows,  "Like 
the  Little  People,"  said  Michael,  "asking  to 


come  in." 


245 


246  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

At  this  time  business  was  "quiet."  The 
work  of  the  gardens  could  go  on,  undisturbed 
by  shipping  or  packing — to  Rudolph  Trommel's 
great  content.  He  settled  himself  down  to  his 
winter's  work  of  grafting  as  comfortably  as  a 
woodchuck  settles  himself  down  to  his  winter's 
rest,  as  little  concerned  about  the  outer  world. 
Michael  was  more  restless,  now  here  and  now 
there  about  the  houses,  superintending  bits  of 
work,  but  always,  in  bad  weather,  at  his  potting 
bench.  The  office  looked  dingy  and  colourless 
without  the  young  secretary.  Henry  Stirling, 
almost  as  much  a  fixture  as  his  big  desk  itself, 
was,  like  the  office,  growing  gradually  older, 
dingier,  as  the  bald  spot  was  slowly  encroaching 
on  his  thin,  dark-brown  hair. 

Secure  from  the  interruption  of  visitors, 
Mr.  Horace  Worthington  sat  in  his  sunny  pri- 
vate office.  The  winter  sunlight  touched  his 
white  hair  and  the  gold  rims  of  his  glasses.  He 
was  writing  a  poem  on  "Flora,"  happy,  like 
Trommel,  in  the  cessation  of  trade,  for  even  the 
business  of  Roseberry  Gardens  does  not  always 
lend  itself  to  writing  poems  on  "Flora";  be- 
sides, conscience  forbids  such  divertisements. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FOUR  247 

There  was  a  knock. 

The  old  gentleman  laid  down  his  pen — an 
ivory,  gold-pointed  one — with  deliberation,  for 
mentally,  as  it  were,  he  had  to  ask  the  bright 
goddess  to  withdraw  and  hide  herself  before 
allowing  an  intruder  to  enter. 

Michael  it  was,  who  responded  to  the  "come 
in."     He  had  some  brown  stems  in  his  hand. 

"'Tis  Jasminum  nudiflorum,"  he  said,  "and 
these  warm  days  made  it  bud.  'Tis  only  right  to 
show  the  plant  some  appreciation  av  its  effort." 

Mr.  Worthington  beamed  as  he  thanked  him, 
for  the  floral  offering  fitted  in  directly  with  his 
mood. 

"The  next  warm  bit  we  have  this  month," 
continued  Michael,  pleased  with  the  success  of 
his  gift,  "shVd  bring  Mr.  Herford."  Michael 
spoke  as  if  he  were  a  plant. 

Mr.  Worthington  laughed,  a  low  silvery  chuc- 
kle. 

"You  place  him  between  Jasminum  nudiflo- 
rum and  Rhododendron  Dahuricum?" 

Michael  thought  a  moment.  "Yes,  sir. 
About  February  come  the  second  bit  av  thaw, 
and  out  comes  Mr.   Herford,   if  he's  in  the 


248   ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

counthry,  to  see  what's  started.  The  fur-rst 
makes  him  think:  the  second  out  he  comes." 

But  before  Mr.  Herford's  appearance,  back 
came  the  secretary.  On  her  desk  were  jas- 
minum  and  forsythia  forced  into  bloom,  votive 
offerings  from  Michael.  Mr.  Worthington  came 
out  of  his  private  office,  and,  noting  the  decora- 
tions, observed  that  it  was  the  return  of  "Flora." 

Michael,  however,  was  saddened.  The  young 
secretary  plunged  into  the  accumulation  of 
work,  and  it  was  some  days  before  she  had 
leisure  for  potting  plants  with  Michael  in  his 
corner  of  the  greenhouse.  When  finally  she  ap- 
peared, Michael  was  taciturn. 

"Is  it  thrue?"  he  said  at  last. 

"Is  what  true?" 

"That  ye've  promised  yerself  to  a  b'y  that 
can't  tell  ligustrum  media  fr'm  ligustrum  ibota! " 

"I've  promised  to  go  in  business  with  him, 
Michael,  that's  all.  I'm  going  to  be  down  there 
three  months  next  winter.  Mr.  Worthington 
said  I  could." 

Michael  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  like  it," 
he  said.  "What's  to  become  of  my  little  man? 
What  about  the  foine  place  on  the  Hudson  ye 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FOUR  249 

were  to  plant  as  ye  liked?  Ruin  yer  prospects, 
an'  that's  one  thing  an'  'tis  bad  enough,  but  to 
spile  the  business  of  Roseb'rry  Gardens,  too! 
Whativer  have  ye  done  to  him?"  he  demanded. 

"Nothing,  Michael.     Mr.  Herford  has  you." 

"I  believe  ye're  takin'  the  lad  f'r  the  sake  av 
his  garden." 

Roberta  smiled.  "The  garden  is  thrown  in, 
Michael,  and  a  horse  and  such  nice  dogs!" 

Michael  shook  his  head. 

"After  all  the  pains  I  took  with  yer  ed-u- 
ca-tion." 

"But  you  helped  us  wonderfully,  Michael. 
Lots  of  the  things  we  are  going  to  try  are  your 
ideas." 

"I  did  not  ed-u-cate  ye  f'r  that!"  he  denied 
indignantly.     "  I  had  such  hopes  av  ye !" 

"And  have  you  none  now?" 

"I  hope  ye're  a  light  eater,"  said  Michael 
solemnly. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIVE 

THE  spring  with  its  charm  and  its  fever- 
ish rush  of  work  came  and  went.  There 
were  days  when  the  little  secretary  lost 
her  pretty  colour  and  looked  worn  and  tired  from 
the  strain. 

"You  should  have  nothing  to  do  but  pick 
the  flowers, "  said  Maurice  Herford  to  her,  but 
she  shook  her  head. 

"I  like  it  and  I  want  to  see  it  through." 

He  went  back  to  the  houses  to  Michael  for 
consolation. 

"Gur-rls  is  curious,"  said  Michael,  "an* 
they're  different  fr'm  what  they  used  to  be. 
'Tis  the  mutation  av  species,  Mr.  Trommel 
says.  Ye  sh'u'd  have  set  her  to  wor-rk,  Mr. 
Herford,  layin'  out  gardens  or  the  like.  She's 
doin'  her  best  to  Tarn  the  business,  an'  she's 
talkin'  wid'  Mr.  Worthington  about  what  they 
sh'u'd  and  what  they  sh'u'dn't  plant  down  in 
that  Carolina  swamp,  as  if  it  was  her  own.  'Tis 

250 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIVE  251 

too  bad  I  didn't  think  the  lad  had  wor-rk  up  his 
sleeve  to  offer  her !  'Tis  no  offer  av  wor-rk  w'u'd 
timpt  me!  I'm  beginnin'  to  think  av  that 
chair  av  Horticulture  and  Dindrology  f'r  the 
sake  av  restin'  me  bones.  Indeed,  Mr.  Her- 
ford,  there's  somethin'  wrong  wid  the  gur-rls 
av  to-day.  There's  somethin'  wrong  wid  their 
natural  selection.  Time  was  when  'twas  en- 
j'yment  a  gur-rl  wanted,  'twas  pleasure,  'twas 
pretty  clothes.  Now,  begorr, 'tis  wor-rk !  'Tis 
wor-rk  they  want,  'tis  the  vote  they  want. 
Their  own  wor-rk  is  not  enough,  'tis  the  man's 
wor-rk  they  want  also.  Haven't  ye  heard  thim 
speak  about  the  *  right  to  wor-rk?'" 

Mr.  Herford  nodded.  "Yes,  and  I — some- 
how I  don't  quite  like  it." 

"I  know,"  said  Michael  understandingly; 
"ye've  the  old-fashioned  idea  av  woman  as  an 
ornamint." 

"I  know  it."  Maurice  Herford  spoke  regret- 
fully. "  One  likes  to  see  them  rested  and  pretty, 
like  flowers." 

"I  tell  ye  they  don't  recognize  the  wor-rd 
ornamental;  'tis  parasites  they  call  it,  though 
there's   a   wor-rld   av   difference   between   an 


252  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

ornamental  an*  a  parasite.  A  parasite,  as  ye 
know,  ye  treat  wid  kerosene  emulsion,  or  arsen- 
ate of  lead — the  wan  thing  is  to  be  rid  av  it, 
but  an  ornamental — it's  the  pride  av  the  gar- 
dens! What  are  roses,  what  are  azaleas  an* 
rhodydendrons,  what,  in  fact,  is  the  Venus  de 
Milo  hersilf  an'  some  av  the  saints  av  Hiven 
but  ornamentals?  However,  gu-rls  '11  not  be 
ornamentals.  'Tis  street  trees,  as  it  were,  they'll 
be,  gooseb'ry  bushes  an'  apple  trees,  windbreaks 
an'  hedges,  an'  sustainin'  oaks.  But  d'ye  know 
what  will  come?  I've  heard  thim  Votes  f'r 
Women  speakers !  Indeed,  they  can  talk  foine. 
'Can  woman  do  a  man's  wor-rk?'  'Yis,'  says 
they  (an'  'yis'  says  I,  too).  An'  will  they  vote 
betther?  They  say  'tis  thrue.  Iv'ry  kind  av 
corruption  will  disappear.  'More  power  thin 
to  thiin,'  says  I.  But  f'r  you  an'  me  the  day 
whin  women  have  the  vote — 'twill  be  the  day 
av  our  emancipation.  Min  have  been  down- 
throdden  an'  driven,  kept  wid  the  nose  to  the 
grindstone  till  the  physiognomy  av  the  Irish- 
man shows  it,  kept  wid  a  string  to  the  pay  en- 
velope. 'He  that  has  wife  an'  child  has  given 
hostages  to  Fortune.'    Ye  know  it  all.    Thin, 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIVE  253 

'twill  be  changed.  Ye'll  see  how  they'll  blos- 
som. Thin,  serene  in  the  assurance  that  the 
government  is  being  run  right,  unthroubled  by 
economic  pressure,  min  will  be  free  and  flower- 
like as  ye  say.  Min  will  reinforce  the  de- 
serted ranks  av  the  ornamentals !  I'm  wonderin' 
whether  whin  women  have  the  vote  I  sh'u'd  buy 
me  a  shamrock-green  coat  or  a  plaid  wan.  An' 
yersilf,  Mr.  Herford,  ye  sh'u'd  wear  ruffles  at 
yer  sleeve  an'  velvet.     'Twill  be  a  great  day ! " 

Mr.  Herford  laughed.  "You  should  be  an 
orator,  Michael." 

"I've  had  some  thoughts  av  it,"  returned 
Michael  complacently,  "but  I'll  wait  till  I'm 
restin'  me  bones  in  that  chair  av  Horticulture 
and  Dindrology  at  the  college." 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX 

HOPE  you  are  satisfied,  child,"  said 
Major  Pomerane  to  Roberta,  "and 
have  enough  on  your  shoulders." 

"Almost,"  said  Roberta. 

"The  talent  some  people  have  for  finding 
chores!"  he  said  disgustedly.  "I  never  wanted 
to  do  anything  down  there  but  have  a  right 
good  time  and  shoot.  You  New  Englanders 
are  the  limit  for  finding  duties.  I  believe  when 
you  get  up  to  heaven  instead  of  leaving  such 
matters  to  the  angels  you'll  set  about  dusting 
the  gates  and  polishing  the  golden  streets." 

"But  this  is  fun,  Uncle  Jim,  the  best  fun  I've 
had  for  a  long  time.     Come  down  and  see." 

"Humph!"  grunted  the  Major.  "I've  not 
much  use  for  this  crazy  farm-superintendent 
Ceres  and  Flora  business.     Prosperine,  that's 

the  part Which  of  the  old  fossils  is  Pluto, 

I  wonder?  Trommel,  I  suppose.  He  looks  as 
if  he  might  go  down  under  the  oak  roots  at 

254 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX  255 

night.  Why  don't  you  marry  Paul  and  be  done 
with  it?" 

"Maybe  I  will,"  said  Miss  Davenant  se- 
renely, "but  if  we  can't  work  together  for  three 
months,  why  plan  to  do  it  for  always?" 

"There's  something  in  that,"  admitted  the 
Major;  "young  folk  nowadays  are  so  con- 
foundedly calculating!  I  agree  with  old  Hor- 
ace out  at  the  Gardens,  that  romance  is  dead!" 

Roberta  laughed  softly.  "Don't  tell,  Uncle 
Jim  but — truly  it  isn't!" 

With  that  she  left  him.  The  Major  watched 
her  go  down  the  path,  through  the  shrubbery, 
and  heard  the  gate  click  of  the  Davenant  gar- 
den. Then  he  took  up  his  pipe  and  resumed  his 
book. 

To  "old  Horace,"  as  Major  Pomerane  irrev- 
erently called  him,  with  his  liking  for  novelty 
and  experiment,  the  idea  of  restoring  the  old 
gardens  and  at  the  same  time  making  them 
commercially  profitable  was  fascinating. 

"There  is  no  reason,"  he  declared,  "why 
any  agricultural  experiment  should  not  be 
arranged  with  an  eye  to  beauty.  I  believe  the 
famous  rose  gardens  of  the  Vale  of  Cashmere 


256  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

were  commercial.  We  have  too  long  associated 
utility  with  ugliness,  and  borne  ugliness  that 
had  the  excuse  of  utility  or  commercial  value. 
Yet  merely  a  little  attention  to  balance  and 
proportion,  and  plenty  of  green  to  keep  it  rest- 
ful and  any  place  can  be  made  beautiful." 

He  looked  down  the  grass  path  bordered  by 
many-hued  Iris. 

"'Thy  gardens  and  thy  goodly  walks 
Continually  are  green.'" 

he  quoted  to  Roberta,  who  was  speaking  of 
this  parterre.  "Saint  Bernard,  you  observe, 
believed  in  grass  walks  in  a  garden!  Your 
parterre  will  be  very  beautiful — it  will  look  like 
a  Holland  nursery  in  tulip  time." 

Instead  of  a  long  summer  dallying  with  work 
at  Roseberry  Gardens,  Paul  Fielding  was  but 
three  weeks  there,  stayed  with  Major  Pomerane, 
and  spent  every  spare  moment  at  the  gardens, 
this  time  in  genuine  study. 

Even  Michael  grudgingly  admitted  that  he 
was  learning  and  melted  to  showing  him  some 
details  of  the  greenhouse  work. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX  257 

"Comin'  here  f'r  somethings  he  wants  to 
know,"  said  Michael,  "is  a  different  matther 
fr'm  visitin'  around  an'  expectin'  the  informa- 
tion to  fly  up  an'  soak  in.  'Tis  like  goin'  to  a 
spigot  f'r  a  dhrink  whin  ye're  thirsty,  turnin' 
it  on  an'  holdin'  yer  cup  instead  of  standin' 
out  in  the  rain  wid  yer  mouth  open!" 

The  old  gardens  at  Paradise  Park  began  to 
smile  as  they  had  not  done  for  many  a  year. 
Rows  and  rows  of  scarlet  camellias  filled  the 
great  parterre  in  front  of  the  broad  terrace. 
In  the  ancient  rose  gardens  were  hundreds  of 
thrifty  young  ones,  grown  from  cuttings  of 
cantifolia,  Wm.  Allen  Richardson,  Reine  Henri- 
etta; but  the  sundial  in  the  centre,  the  grass 
paths  which  divided  the  garden  into  four  square 
beds,  the  great  camellias  at  each  corner  kept 
it  a  garden,  rather  than  a  plantation.  In  the 
old  kitchen  garden  were  thousands  of  little  box 
plants  like  regiments  of  tiny  green  soldiers. 

In  the  more  out  of  the  way  gardens  were  ex- 
periments— tea,  indigo,  young  Japanese  plum 
trees,  and  a  few  mulberry  trees  for  silkworms. 

It  was  impressibly  charming  to  Roberta  to 


258  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

see  the  vision  gradually  taking  shape,  the  dream 
garden  coming  true  as  the  beautiful  lines  of 
the  old  place  reasserted  themselves,  just  as  a 
painting  might  be  restored  that  had  been  stained 
and  painted  over. 

Sometimes  a  slight  change  would  make  definite 
a  value  such  as  restoring  the  mate  of  a  cedar 
tree  where  two  had  stood  guardians  of  a  path. 
Whenever  wood  was  cut  of  necessity,  it  was 
done  where  trees  had  grown  up,  blocking  the 
old  vistas.  Azaleas,  clipped  and  sent  in  hamp- 
ers to  be  sold,  were  cut  where  the  bushes  had 
to  be  pruned — a  trick  Roberta  had  learned  from 
Trommel — so  that  gradually  the  thick  masses 
of  azaleas  on  each  side  of  the  long  path  became 
trim  as  a  wall  of  ilex  or  a  hedge  of  English  yew. 

The  business  was  coming,  too.  Boxes  of 
holly  and  mistletoe  and  smilax  went  North  for 
Christmas.  The  holly,  instead  of  being  shipped 
loose,  was  made  into  wreaths,  and  there  were 
wreaths,  too,  of  pine  cones  and  moss. 

"They  bring  more  sent  that  way,"  said  Miss 
Davenant,  who  had  not  been  Michael  O'Con- 
nor's pupil  for  nothing!  There  were  bundles  of 
pitch-pine   "light  wood"   made   into   bundles 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX  259 

tied  with  sprigs  of  holly  and  shipped  north  to 
crackle  and  flame  in  open  fireplaces  at  Christ- 
mas time. 

Every  crop  of  any  possible  value  was  sent  to 
a  market  and  tried.  Colonel  Fielding  looked  on 
with  rather  amused  interest — there  was  nothing 
Paul  did  not  want  to  try — mulberries  and  silk- 
worms, roses,  indigo,  tea,  Japanese  plums. 
Straight  market  gardening  did  not  interest  him. 

One  of  Mr.  Worthington's  ideas  was  to  study 
your  soil  and  study  the  neighbouring  soil  which 
very  often  contains  the  exact  medicine  your  soil 
needs.  So  he  analyzed,  and  had  muck  from  the 
swamp  carted  into  his  gardens. 

Presently  the  old  place  began  to  thrive  and 
take  heart  again.  Of  all  the  tentative  experi- 
ments, the  most  definitely  successful  was  the 
rose  growing,  and  five  years  later  Paradise  Park 
came  into  fame  with  a  new  rose — a  cross  between 
the  Cherokee  and  one  of  the  hardy  Japanese 
Wichuraiana,  a  rose  which  had  the  delicate  love- 
liness of  the  Cherokee  with  the  Wichuraiana's 
hardiness.  But  that  is  another  story  and  a 
later  one,  it  was  as  yet  only  a  dream.  The  next 
summer  Paul  came  back  to  Roseberry  Gardens. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SEVEN 

PAUL  had  sent  no  word  of  his  coming, 
"things  that  just  happen  are  the  best," 
he  said  to  himself.  But  he  rode  out  to 
Roseberry  Gardens  before  any  one  was  astir 
but  the  blackbirds  and  orioles. 

When  he  passed  through  the  gateway  in  the 
hedge  where  in  the  spring  magnolias  hold  up 
their  creamy  chalices  to  the  sun  like  great  bridal 
roses,  the  broad  grass  walk  stretched  green 
and  glistening  in  the  sunlight,  the  azaleas  had 
passed,  but  great  squares  of  rhododendrons 
flared  as  if  they  had  caught  the  sunrise  and  were 
reflecting  its  crimson  and  rose.  It  was  early 
in  the  morning — earlier  even  than  old  Trommel, 
and  the  garden  was  silent  except  for  the  thrushes 
that  were  singing  their  exquisite  antiphonal, 
while,  unimpressed  by  the  melody,  a  gorgeously 
handsome  blue- jay  perched  on  a  nearby  mag- 
nolia branch  and  scolded. 

260 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SEVEN         261 

"Br'er  Jay,  I  reckon  your  name's  Michael," 
laughed  young  Mr.  Fielding. 

It  was  too  early  even  for  Roberta,  so  he  took 
the  narrow  wood  path  that  Roberta  had  taken 
that  May  morning  two  years  ago  when  she 
disappeared  from  his  view.  The  path  led 
through  the  dogwoods  where  that  other  morning 
blossoms  laid  like  snow  on  the  dark  level 
branches,  black  and  gleaming  in  the  early  sun- 
shine, past  the  "Pyrus  Section"  he  went,  toward 
the  farm  and  the  "violet  road"  where  the  little 
rabbits  lay  hidden.  He  would  walk  until 
Roberta  came  out,  for  it  was  his  fancy  to  see 
her  there  with  the  flowers'  and  the  green  hedge 
for  a  background,  not  in  the  dingy  office.  Be- 
sides, there  was  Michael! 

He  sat  down  under  the  big  linden,  took  off  his 
hat,  and  looked  away  to  the  meadows  and  the 
little  creek  that  went  in  and  out  the  shining 
marshes  like  the  river  at  Paradise  Park;  at  last 
he  saw  the  groups  of  men  approaching.  "Past 
seven,"  he  said  to  himself,  and  went  rapidly  back 

the  dogwood  path.     "I  wonder "     Then  he 

caught  a  glimpse  of  her  bright  head  as  she  passed 
through  the  hemlock  gateway. 


262  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

She  bent  over  an  azalea  for  a  moment,  then 
walked  slowly,  looking  evidently  at  plant  after 
plant,  and  did  not  see  him  where  he  stood  by  the 
magnolias  until  very  close. 

"Roberta!"  he  said.  She  stopped  suddenly, 
and  the  colour  flamed  in  her  face. 

"You!"  she  cried,  and  went  to  him  quickly, 
with  both  hands  outstretched.  "Oh,  Paul!" 
she  said,  but  no  more,  for  his  arms  were  around 
her  and  her  speech  was  stopped  for  a  long  mo- 
ment. 

Then  she  pushed  him  back,  a  slim  brown  hand 
on  each  shoulder. 

The  thrushes  had  stopped  singing,  only  the 
blue-jay  remained,  scolding  over  his  late  break- 
fast. 

"Are  you  really  back?"  she  said. 

"Such  a  foolish  question,"  scolded  the  blue- 
jay. 

But  Paul  Fielding  laughed  happily. 

"My  garden  is  growing!  The  silver  bells 
and  cockle-shells  are  all  in  a  row!"  he  said. 
"Will  you  come?" 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"And  soon — very  soon?" 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SEVEN         263 

"As  soon  as  you  like,"  she  said.  "But, 
Paul,  I  want  you  to  know  one  thing:  it  would 
have  been  the  same  if  the  garden  hadn't  grown." 

He  kissed  her  again.  "You  darling!"  Then 
hand  in  hand,  like  two  children,  they  went  back 
together  down  the  broad  grassy  path  between 
the  flaming  rhododendrons.  At  the  gateway 
Michael  confronted  them. 

"The  Angel  at  the  gate  of  Paradise,"  said 
young  Mr.  Fielding. 

"I've  been  lookin'  all  over  f'r  yez,  Miss 
Davenant,"  Michael  said,  looking  keenly  at  the 
young  secretary  and  throwing  a  disapproving 
glance  at  her  companion. 

The  secretary  flushed  as  deeply  as  one  of  the 
rose-pink  azaleas. 

"Michael,  dear,"  she  said,  "won't  you  wish 
me  happiness?" 

Michael  hesitated,  looked  at  the  pair,  and 
then  his  infectious  smile  irradiated  his  face. 

"Shure  and  I  wish  ye  all  the  happiness  in 
the  wor-rld,  Miss  Davenant,  and  ye,  too,"  he 
added,  turning  to  Paul. 

"Really,  Roberta,"  said  Major  Pomerane, 


264  ROBERTA  OF  ROSEBERRY  GARDENS 

"you  ought  to  have  the  old  fossils  for  brides- 
maids. Think  how  appropriate  it  would  be! 
Drape  'em  in  togas  and  set  a  fashion!  I  cer- 
tainly ought  to  be  Paul's  best  man!  But  one 
must  not  expect  gratitude  of  youth!"  he  said 
resignedly.     "That's  what  old  Horace  says." 

And  Maurice  Herford?  He  bought  plants 
as  of  old,  after  the  bright-haired  secretary  had 
gone,  but  absent-mindedly,  coming  out,  as  if 
from  habit,  to  the  garden  which  seemed  more 
dreamily  quiet  than  ever. 

"'Tis  a  bit  lonesome,"  said  Michael,  inter- 
preting the  other's  thoughts. 

Maurice  Herford  nodded.  The  two  were 
standing  by  Michael's  potting  bench. 

"'Tis  a  shame!  I  thought  she  had  more 
sinse!" 

"He  has  youth,"  said  Herford  sadly. 

"So's  a  Carolina  poplar,"  retorted  Michael; 
"an'  who  wants  it  but  a  real  estate  agent! 
Wu'd  you  compare  it  wid  a  Quercus  robur  or  a 
Platanus  Orientalis?  'Tis  not  intelligence,  'tis 
not  ch'ice,  'tis  propinquity — heathen  deity  that 
makes  a  lot  av  trouble.     Take  a  b'y  and  a  gur-rl 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SEVEN  265 

an'  a  bit  av  fine  scenery  or  moonshine,  an'  all 
ye  need  to  ask  is  'whin?'" 

"I  had  no  chance  anyway,"  said  Maurice 
Her  ford. 

"Ye  had  chance  afther  chance,  Mr.  Her- 
ford,"  said  Michael  pityingly,  "but  ye  didn't 
see  thim.  Indeed  life  is  like  one  av  them 
merry-go-rounds.  There's  a  ring  ye  try  f'r, 
an'  while  ye're  planning  jest  how  to  pick  it  off 
wid  the  p'int  of  yer  stick,  whist!  ye've  gone  by 
an'  another  lad  has  it.  'Tis  not  the  best  nor 
the  cleverest  that  gets  it,  but  the  wan  that 
grabs  at  just  the  right  moment. 

"Indeed  plants  is  better  than  people.  Take  a 
good  sort,  plant  it  and  tend  it  and  it  will  be 
there  to  smile  at  ye  year  in  and  year  out  and  not 
chasin'  off  with  any  green  lad  av  a  buddin' 
gardener!" 

He  brushed  the  soil  from  his  fingers,  untied 
his  apron,  hung  it  up,  and  turned  with  his  beam- 
ing smile  to  Maurice  Herford. 

"  What's  a  gur-rl ! "  he  said  blithely.  "  Come 
out  and  see  me  new  azalea!" 

THE   END 


THE    COUNTRY    LIFE    PRESS 
GARDEN    CITY,    N.   Y 


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